A Primer for the Small Weird Loves
by unicornesque
Summary: "In the glow of the fires, her unkempt hair was a halo, her eyes were Baltic amber, and he was panicking." Born and raised in France, Draco Malfoy attends Beauxbatons and leads a privileged, well-ordered existence. He meets Hermione Granger for the first time at the Triwizard Tournament, and that's when things get... strange. But kind of wonderful, too.
1. The Kids Don't Stand a Chance

**Notes: **I haven't read the books in forever. My copy of GoF is at my parents' house an ocean away, so I'm working mainly with memory and the HP Lexicon. I apologize in advance for any canonical errors unrelated to the AU nature of the fic. That having been said, I'm enjoying writing this story so far and I hope you'll enjoy reading it. Corrections, suggestions, and constructive criticism are very welcome. Onward!

* * *

**Chapter One**

**The Kids Don't Stand a Chance**

* * *

"I don't understand why you have to go," Narcissa Malfoy sniffed in disdain as she rolled up the letter from the _Directrice, _eyeing it in much the same manner she would eye a particularly nasty breed of slug. "You're not of age; you're ineligible to compete. It's a waste of time."

"I'm covering the tournament for the school paper," her son Draco explained patiently, suppressing a flicker of annoyance. "Madame Maxime says so right there, in her note. There's a slip attached, by the way. You have to sign it."

The parchment unfurled once more in Narcissa's elegant, swanlike hands, filling the drawing room of the Malfoys' Loire Valley chateau with the ghostly sweet scent of crushed rose petals. "It seems a terrible bother, that's all," she huffed.

Draco sighed. Narcissa had switched to English, something she only did when she was feeling perturbed. "It's really not," he replied in his mother's native tongue. "Madame Maxime spoke with my professors. They will be owling me schoolwork every day. I won't fall behind."

"I'm paying for you to attend Beauxbatons, not take a- a correspondence course!"

Draco leaned back in his chair, studying Narcissa across the tea-laden table through hooded eyes. With her white-blonde hair and pale skin, she looked washed out in the golden sunlight spilling through the wide windows, translucent, almost, but not fragile. Far from it. Her slender frame was tense like steel, coiled with the determination and protectiveness that came so naturally to women who raised a child on their own.

"Father won't be there, you know," Draco told her at last. "Even if he found out I was in Scotland, I doubt he'd come all that way to see me."

"Oh, _mon trésor, _it's not that." Narcissa shook her head even as the way the corners of her mouth softened betrayed the statement for the half-truth that it was. "You will be gone so long. Almost nine months. No more of these weekend visits… I couldn't possibly bear it."

"I'll write," Draco promised- in French, to show her that he was sincere. "Once a week, if you like."

Narcissa cracked a smile. _"Twice_ a week."

"Deal."

* * *

Sabine Gaillard ran out to meet Draco as the green family carriage, drawn by two jet-black Arabian horses and emblazoned with the silver Malfoy dragons, dropped him off at the school gates.

"Well?" she demanded. "Is _La Belle Dame sans Merci _letting you go, or what?"

In answer, Draco held up the slip of parchment bearing his mother's calligraphic signature, a pleased smirk on his face.

"Yes!" The junior photographer for _La Plume _punched a fist in the air. "British girls, here we come!"

"We'll be there on official business," Draco reminded her mildly, dismissing the chauffeur with a wave of his hand. The carriage rolled away and Draco began walking up the path leading to the palace, Sabine falling into step beside him.

"It's always business with you," she complained. "Don't you see how marvelous this is? Our classmates are going to be _so _jealous. Well, except for the Quidditch team, they'll murder you in cold blood-"

"Thanks," said Draco, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I wasn't looking forward to telling them before, but I am now."

Sabine patted his arm. "I shall avenge your gruesome Bludgery death. Don't worry."

It was late afternoon on a Sunday. Draco found himself looking at Beauxbatons Palace through new eyes, as he always did whenever he came back from the light-strewn banks of the Loire River. The main building loomed over the paved walkways and the carefully-trimmed hedges, its dramatic Baroque lines softened by hues of pale gold and powdery blue. A delicate breeze skirted in from the Mediterranean as students soaked up the remaining hours of the weekend, either lying sprawled out on the verdant grass or chatting with friends by the marble fountains that burbled with sprays of turquoise water. Behind the palace stretched the lines of olive trees, their leaves flashing silvery green in the red-gold sunset, and clusters of lemon groves that filled the dusky air with their tart fragrance.

Draco inhaled deeply. It wasn't a bad place to spend eight years of his life in. Not bad at all, even though home for him would always be the Loire.

He knew that it was a different story for his mother. Narcissa had been missing England ever since she crossed the Channel at the height of the First Wizarding War. She never discussed in detail why she left; all Draco could gather from her vague retellings was that she'd been determined to keep him as far away from his father as possible. Lucius Malfoy was apparently a rather unsavory character.

But he didn't seem so bad to Draco. Although he had yet to lay eyes on the man, sizeable allowances were deposited in his and Narcissa's bank accounts every month, more than enough for the upkeep of the house, the gardens, and the stables, more than enough for them to buy every little thing they desired. Despite Narcissa's hatred for her husband, she still subscribed to the pure-blood need to keep up appearances. As far as the French wizarding community was concerned, Lucius was simply a busy man who had to manage his vast properties in Great Britain, leaving him little time to visit his wife and son.

And Draco was very much like his mother; no one at school knew the true state of his parents' marriage. Not even Sabine, who was his closest friend.

They encountered a group of third-year girls on their way into the palace. Draco stepped aside to let them pass. A few batted their lashes at him, leaving a trail of giggles and whispers in their wake.

"The Malfoy charm strikes again," Sabine crowed, her jade green eyes bemused. "Tell me, is it terribly difficult, being so good-looking?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Draco said coolly.

"No?" Sabine twirled a strand of curly auburn hair around her finger. "Maybe the girls at Hogwarts will."

"I don't have time for that."

"_Make _time," she advised him in a pragmatic tone of voice. "The morons here are already starting to think you're gay because you hang out with me so much. Pfft. As if we're all in one club or something."

"You mean there's no Beauxbatons Underage Homosexuals Alliance?"

Sabine stopped short, blinking. "You must be really happy about this upcoming trip," she said slowly. "I could almost swear you made an actual joke just now."

* * *

Later that evening, Draco was no longer in the mood for jokes.

He was standing in the middle of the fourth-year common room, his back to the smoldering fireplace, trying not to flinch under the combined weight of his teammates' angry glares.

"Let me get this straight," growled Chaser, captain, and all-around Quidditch fanatic Noel Favre. "We have a real chance to win the Cup this term because the seventh and eighth years will be at the Triwizard Tournament, _but you're going with them?"_

"Well…" Draco cleared his throat. "Yes."

"You're not even of age! You can't compete!"

No wonder Noel and Narcissa got along so well. "It's for the school paper. I said that already."

"So you think _La Plume _is more important than Quidditch?" The captain looked apoplectic. Was that an actual vein ticking on his forehead? Draco resisted the urge to squint to get a clearer view.

"Not at all," he carefully replied, "but most of the staff is old enough to put their names in the Goblet. It's less of a hassle if the person assigned to write the story has no chance of being selected."

It wasn't a _total_ lie. However, the real reason Draco was covering the tournament was that it would be the biggest, most important piece of the year, and editor-in-chief Jacqueline Sarkozy would entrust it to no one else but him.

"_You're the best writer on the staff," _she'd said. _"Well, second to me, of course, but I might get picked. So it's all yours."_

But he'd be damned if he told Noel that.

"We _need _you, Malfoy," declared Chantal Abati, the Keeper, crossing her arms. "We can't play without a Seeker."

"D'Arras is a perfectly capable alternate-"

"D'Arras couldn't catch the Snitch if it jumped into his hands covered in Flobberworm mucus!" snapped Gaspard Moreau, one half of the Beaters. This statement was followed by firm nods and dark mutters of agreement from the rest of the team.

"I truly apologize," Draco said, making sure to keep his tone flat. If he sounded like he meant it, they'd know he was faking. "The _Directrice _would not take kindly to a last-minute change of plans. There's nothing I can do."

"You're a filthy traitor!" Noel shouted, causing everyone else in the room to jump. He stormed up the stairs to the boys' wing, leaving Draco and the rest of the team to look at one another, dumbfounded.

Chantal exhaled into the silence. "Well, that seemed a bit... much."

Draco opened his mouth to echo her sentiments, but thought better of it. Instead, he bid them good night and headed up the stairs as well, hoping that Noel wasn't lying in wait to clobber him with a spare Beater's bat. That would be such a bourgeois way to die.

* * *

Hermione Granger was having the dream again.

They were stringing her up, they were suspending her rag-doll body in the air, she was floating helpless and paralyzed over an ocean of masked figures and forest fires.

"Mudblood," they chanted in an awful chorus of sneering voices, "dirty blood, foul creature, you are not worthy, you do not deserve-"

_The owl came, _Hermione tried to tell them, tried to plead with them. _It flew in through the window and dropped my letter in Mum's cereal. My Hogwarts letter. I went to Diagon Alley and my wand chose me. I'm a witch, I'm magic just like you, I belong-_

But she couldn't push the words past the knot in her throat. She couldn't see Harry or Ron anywhere. She was alone, she couldn't breathe, she was going to die, with the Dark Mark curled up in the sky like a planet and the maniacal laughter of the Death Eaters roaring in her ears…

_This is a dream, _she told herself firmly. _This happened to someone else. You were there, you saw it, but it didn't happen to you. The Dark Mark can never be as big as a planet and you, Hermione Jean Granger, will never beg for mercy from the Death Eaters. You will wake up now. Wake up!_

She opened her eyes.

It was pitch-black, and for several frightening moments her heart rate sped up as the hazy and disoriented part of her began to believe that she really _was_ dead. But she lay still, willing herself to calm down, and soon her vision adjusted to the darkness and she was able to make out the vague shapes of beds and desks and the silhouettes of her sleeping roommates in the faint moonlight.

Hermione sighed in relief. She was no longer at the campsite between the wood and the moor, where the riot had broken out. She was safe within the walls of Hogwarts, and the burning hatred could not touch her here.

Well, most of it, at least. Perhaps encouraged by what occurred after the World Cup final, the Slytherins had grown bolder this year. Their insults were sharper, their pranks meaner. Just last week, during Charms class, Pansy Parkinson had called Hermione "Mudblood" within earshot of Professor Flitwick. It didn't matter that the old wizard had been too preoccupied with correcting Neville Longbottom's technique to hear; just the fact that Parkinson hadn't bothered with the subtle brand of nastiness that her House was famous for meant that something in the air was changing, and Hermione didn't like it one bit.

Because of the distinct possibility that she might once more fall into the dream, she wasn't eager to go back to sleep. She reached for her wand, cast a quick, muted _Lumos, _and tiptoed out of the dormitory with her copy of Miranda Goshawk's _The Standard Book of Spells Grade 4, _careful not to disturb a snoring Parvati Patil and a sleep-talking Lavender Brown.

The staircase creaked gently under Hermione's feet as she made her way down to the Gryffindor common room. She'd intended to celebrate her exciting new career as an insomniac by getting some studying done by the fire, but she was pleasantly surprised by the low rumble of dear and familiar voices.

"What are you two doing awake?" she asked Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, who were sitting on the couch and staring at the flames in the hearth as they talked.

"Hullo," said Ron, casting an affable look her way, a look that quickly faded once he caught sight of the textbook in her hands. "Hermione, you _can't _be serious. It's one in the morning!"

"I couldn't sleep," Hermione replied. "Budge up, will you?"

The boys dutifully moved farther apart, giving her enough space to squeeze in between them. It was cold, so she burrowed into Harry's shoulder and stuck her toes under Ron's thigh.

"Ah," she pronounced in tones of utter contentment, the leftover uneasiness from the bad dream beginning to dissipate in the presence of those she loved best. "I could live like this."

"Your hair's in my mouth," Harry pointed out half-heartedly, sounding more or less resigned to his fate. He proceeded to fill her in. "We were talking about the World Cup riot, going over possible suspects, stuff like that."

"I suspect the usual people," said Hermione. "Macnair the Axe Murderer, for one."

"Everyone in Slytherin's parents," Ron supplied.

"Lucius Malfoy," said Harry. "He _had _to have participated."

"Participated?" Ron echoed with a snort. "He was probably the bloody ringleader."

Hermione was inclined to agree. There had been no love lost between the odious ex-Governor and the trio ever since the diary incident in second year, a state of affairs which had definitely not been improved by last term's This-Beast-Snapped-At-Me-Macnair-Get-Your-Axe fiasco.

"Do you know," Ron continued, rubbing his chin, "that he has a son?"

"Who?" Harry asked, taken aback. _"Lucius?"_

"Lucius Malfoy has _offspring?" _Hermione was suddenly overcome by a wave of nausea. "Who on earth would-"

"Hermione, _please!" _yelled Ron, clapping his hands over his ears. "I don't need to imagine _that! _It's true, though. Heard Mum and Dad talking one time. He's got a wife and son in France."

"That's the most disturbing news I've ever received," Harry reflected. "I mean, a pint-sized Lucius running around. That's terrible. And, well…"

"Gross," Ron and Hermione finished in tandem, with identical shudders.

"I feel sorry for the boy, though," said Hermione. "It must be awful, having a man like that for a father."

Ron snorted. "Bet you a hundred Galleons Lucius Junior's a chip off the old block."

"I wonder what he looks like," Hermione mused.

"Blond and pale," Ron answered without hesitation. "All the Malfoys burst into flames in direct sunlight. They're old-school pure-blood, see. Cousins marrying cousins, snobby as hell. Haven't got a drop of Muggle in them."

"No wonder Voldemort liked Lucius so much," Harry said tightly.

Hermione gazed into the fireplace, the flickering flames reminding her of her dream. For a moment she entertained the fantasy of coming from a family like the Malfoys, of never having her place in the wizarding world questioned. And then she remembered Lucius' cold, cruel eyes, and she decided she was better off. Not even all the blood purity in the world could make up for being related to such a- a tosser.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	2. Why We Build the Wall

**Notes: **Thank you for the reviews, follows, and favorites! I feel ever so welcome and I'm glad people seem to like my idea. I'll try my best to make sure the story lives up to your expectations. Here's the second part! Corrections, suggestions, and constructive criticism are very welcome.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

**Why We Build the Wall**

* * *

Draco was wedged in between Fleur Delacour and Cerise Vanderbilt, and this simple fact was making his head spin in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with the gentle rocking motion of the carriage as it soared through the air.

Fleur and Cerise were the most beautiful girls at school. Individually, they were maddening enough to look at, but in such close proximity to each other the effect was positively staggering. There was even a rumor going around that the two were forbidden to sit next to each other in class because it distracted the younger, more hot-blooded professors.

"You're half-English, aren't you?" Fleur asked, turning to him with eyes as blue as the Atlantic. "I see your name in the paper. Draco _Black _Malfoy. Your articles are very nice. I enjoy them."

Draco swallowed, her husky voice singing through his veins. People said Fleur was the granddaughter of one of the Veela matriarchs, and he could see no reason to contest this. Her presence was turning his mind into mush.

"Full," he corrected her, a little bit too thickly. "My surname is French, but both my parents are from England. They went to Hogwarts."

"You're an expatriate, then?" said Cerise. "Just like me." Her accent was a bit off, slightly American; she was the child of some wealthy Muggle from New York City, who had met her mother while vacationing on the Riviera. She was sitting closest to the window, trapping rays of sunlight in the waves of her long, dark hair.

Draco was on the verge of panicking. He had no use for beautiful women. He hated the way they wreaked havoc on his inner defenses. His gaze travelled the length of the carriage, hoping to catch Sabine's eye, but she was sitting several rows in front of him and engaged in an animated conversation with Bastien Auclair, one of _La Plume_'s senior writers. There would be no help from her end.

"Mother is the expatriate, I guess," he told Cerise. "I was born in Cherbourg, and then we moved to Nantes. I lived there all my life before getting my owl."

"How interesting," Fleur purred, and it was, wasn't it? He was interesting and strong and brave and he could do anything, anything at all, anything for her-

"Fleur!" Madame Maxime called out sharply from the front row of the carriage. "Stop that! I can feel it all the way here. _Stop."_

The world darkened. Or, rather, the world returned to normal after being suffused with a kind of light that Draco couldn't identify and hadn't even noticed until it disappeared. Fleur was regarding him with amusement, still lovely and alluring, but no longer too good to be true. It was if some sort of figurative veil had been draped over her face all of a sudden.

"No fair, Delacour!" one of the seventh-year boys called out. With a start, Draco realized all heads had turned to him, although only Sabine looked particularly concerned. "He's a child!"

"Yeah," an eighth-year girl chimed in. "They can send you to jail for that."

Fleur laughed throatily, waving away her schoolmates' scrutiny with a lazy flick of the wrist. "My apologies," she murmured to Draco.

"Don't mind her," Cerise confided, dark eyes sparkling like jewels against her honeyed skin. "That's just how she likes to say hello."

Draco felt more out-of-depth than he had ever been in his life. He'd just been put under a _spell, _some kind of elemental magic- and for what? A joke, a few laughs at the expense of a lowly fourth-year? He could act indignant, he could switch seats…

Or he could be his mother's son.

He shrugged coolly. "It's a neat parlor trick, I suppose."

Much to his consternation, the two girls burst out laughing.

"What did I tell you?" Fleur said to Cerise. "The British are made of stern stuff."

* * *

Scotland was _cold. _The icy chill blew in from the moors and sank its claws deep into Draco's bones. He'd been shivering ever since he stepped out of the carriage and looked up at Hogwarts Castle with its baffling jumble of towers and battlements silhouetted against the evening sky.

"What sort of architecture do you call this?" Bastien sniffed, his teeth chattering.

"Gothic neurotic?" Draco offered, causing the other boy to chortle and clap him on the back.

"Good one, Malfoy! You should use that in your article."

"If I can get away with it."

Draco's schoolmates looked just as miserable as he felt as they filed into the entrance hall. Their silk robes, so perfect for the Mediterranean's gentle climes, were no match for the frigid weather of Northern Europe. Draco felt a twinge of envy for those who had thought to bring scarves and shawls, which they were now clutching tightly around themselves.

The Great Hall was marginally warmer, thanks in part to the thousands of candles floating in midair. The ceiling was a perfect replica of the sky outside, its stars raining down frosty light on the four long tables over which banners bearing different colors and emblems had been unfurled.

Sabine nudged Draco, pointing to a dark green flag embossed with a silver serpent and black accents. "Aren't those your family colors?"

"Yes," Draco replied after a moment's inspection. "That's Slytherin House. The Malfoys and Blacks have been in there for generations."

"Good thing you went to Beauxbatons, then," said Sabine. "They look downright unfriendly."

Draco studied the pinched, stony faces of the table's occupants, whose haughty bearings practically screamed _pure-blood. _It wasn't unfriendliness, he wanted to explain to Sabine. At least, not exactly. It was a simple matter of having grown up in a small community of people who were like you, and not needing anybody else.

But Sabine wouldn't understand. Her father was a half-blood and her mother was Muggleborn. In fact, if Beauxbatons had a housing system similar to Hogwarts, instead of grouping its students by year level, Draco doubted he and Sabine would have been friends at all.

"Where shall we sit?" Fleur wondered out loud, her voice obscured by the muffler around her head.

"With our colors, I should think," said Jacqueline, pointing to a blue banner with a bronze eagle that looked almost golden in the candlelight. "Seems as good a place as any."

They settled themselves at the Ravenclaw table, exchanging tentative greetings with the Hogwarts students. Sabine dug out her camera and snapped a few photographs of the Great Hall, although she gave up after a while, complaining about the abysmal lighting.

"No need to dive in right away," Jacqueline assured her. "You have nine months to get good pictures of the castle. Just make sure to snap a few of Dumbledore during his speech."

"And of them," said Bastien, gesturing to the doorway.

The students from Durmstrang Institute had arrived, draped in heavy furs that revealed only glimpses of their blood-red robes. Draco regarded them with interest as Sabine's camera clicked away; the day he got his Beauxbatons letter, his mother had made some smug comment about how his father would have wanted him in Durmstrang.

"Too far away, of course," Narcissa had declared, shaking her head. "And _too _cold."

Of course, Draco had wondered back then if it was more a question of erasing semblances of his father's influence than logistics.

"And here we go," Sabine muttered in his ear, sounding both exasperated and amused.

Draco didn't have to look around for long to figure out what she meant. A couple of Ravenclaw girls were gazing at him with interest. He accidentally made eye contact with one of them, and she giggled. He looked away, ducking his head.

When the students from all three schools had settled down, the staff entered and took their seats at the top table, Madame Maxime bringing up the rear. As soon as their _Directrice _appeared, Draco and the rest of his schoolmates stood up, provoking ripples of laughter from the Hogwarts crowd.

"What's _that _about?" Fleur bristled. "This is _respect. _How do they treat _their _professors?"

"Pay these provincials no mind, Delacour," Bastien advised her airily, although he, too, looked miffed.

The rest of the Welcome Feast went smoothly enough, although Fleur laughed a little too loudly at Albus Dumbledore's remarks about how he trusted that their stay would be "comfortable and enjoyable," perhaps as revenge for her injured pride. As Draco took a fastidious sample of each course, his gaze drifted back to the Durmstrang delegation, who had decided to sit with the Slytherin students, and he pondered this sight, these two different ways his life could have gone.

* * *

The next evening found the elegantly appointed interiors of the Beauxbatons carriage in an uproar. Draco was sitting by the fireplace, hurriedly scribbling notes on a piece of parchment as the others gathered around their newly-selected champion, some attempting to console her while the other more irate students egged her on.

"I will not stand for this!" Fleur screamed, stamping her foot. "Hogwarts can't have _two _champions! The nerve! I've half a mind to go back to France! That's what I think of the English and their shameless cheating!"

"Can I quote you on that?" Draco asked.

Fleur glared at him and he thought for one frightening moment that she would sprout claws and start hurling fireballs like her Veela ancestors.

"You have to compete, Delacour," said Bastien, stepping in front of Draco. "It's a binding magical contract, isn't it, Madame Maxime?"

The _Directrice _nodded. "Yes, the rules are very clear. It is, of course, most unjust, and I _shall _be lodging a complaint… But you are one of my best students, Fleur. It does not matter how many champions Hogwarts has, you will still be able to hold your own against them."

She offered Fleur a conciliatory smile. The girl acknowledged it with a slight bow of her head, but as soon as Madame Maxime swept off into her chambers and shut the door, she tossed back her silvery hair and started shouting again.

"Time for bed, little fourth-years," Cerise murmured to Draco and Sabine. "We'll handle this."

Sabine glanced at Fleur uneasily. "Are you sure? She's looking quite… unbalanced."

"Oh, that's just her way," said Cerise. "She'll be fine in the morning. When she's mad she likes to yell and stomp until she gets sleepy, see?"

"I expect it's the Veela in her," Sabine commented.

"What? No." Cerise looked surprised. "The Delacours were originally from Burgundy. Trust me, this is _entirely _her Gallic side."

* * *

The Wednesday after Harry's name was spat out by the Goblet of Fire, Hermione sought shelter from anti-Gryffindor sentiment in the library. The accusing glares and angry mutters would be much more bearable with her boys around, but they still weren't speaking to each other after their argument. Frankly, she was getting tired of Harry's moping and Ron's sulking. A nursemaid of injured feelings, she most definitely was not.

A group of Hufflepuffs caught sight of her as she headed for the Legal Section.

"It's Granger," she heard one of them say acidly.

"I bet shehad something to do with putting Potter's name in, clever witch like her-"

Oh, now _that _was entirely a new low! Hermione was about to march over there and give the blasted Hufflepuffs a piece of her mind, when someone behind her cleared his throat.

"Excuse me."

Hermione whirled around. Standing a few inches away was a Beauxbatons student. He was quite handsome, with gray eyes set in a pale, aristocratic face and hair so blond it was almost white. He didn't look much older than her, which was surprising because the other delegates seemed to be in their late teens.

And he also seemed familiar, for some reason, although she couldn't recall having noticed him at any point during the past few days.

"Yes, what is it?" said Hermione warily, not in the mood for a confrontation. The last thing she needed right now was some snooty French boy picking a fight with her over the perceived cheating.

"I would like a book on your school's history, for my article." His English was careful but fluid, with a moderate accent. "The librarian told me where it is, but I'm lost, and she's very… formidable."

Hermione relaxed. "Madam Pince has that effect on the best of us," she assured him. "You want _Hogwarts: A History. _I'll show you."

He walked quietly behind her as she led him to the Reference Section. "Your article, did you say?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Yes. I'm writing about the tournament for my school's newspaper. I thought I should know more about the setting, first. To add..." He trailed off, searching for the correct word. "Life."

Hermione found herself warming to him. She of all people knew the importance of proper, detailed research. Upon reaching the shelves in the Reference Section, she ran a hand over the spines of _H_s until she found the title she was looking for.

"Here we are," she said brightly, pulling the book out and handing it to him. As he took it from her, their fingers brushed and Hermione almost jumped back at the sparks of electricity that ran through her skin at the slight contact.

_Oh, bollocks, _she thought ruefully. _Anything but this._

If he had felt the same buzz, his composed, fine-boned features gave no indication of it. "Thank you," he said with a tentative smile, as if his lips were unused to such an action. "Your name is?"

"Hermione," she replied. "Hermione Granger."

"Ah, like the Spartan princess."

She blinked. "What?"

He shifted uneasily. "Helen's daughter- never mind-"

"No, no, I know who you mean." The words spilled from her in a rush. "It's just- I've never met anyone who knew that, too."

"I see."

They looked at each other awkwardly, both unsure what to say next. A beam of sunlight filtered in through the nearest library window, stained with dust motes, picking out flecks of silver in his gray eyes. He really _was _good-looking. Hermione was no slave to hormones, but she racked her brain frantically for a suitable topic because she was absolutely certain she didn't want this conversation to come to an end just yet.

"So, you like the _Iliad?"_ The second the words left her mouth, she wanted to smack herself. _You could've at least asked for his name first, yeah? _Parvati's acerbic voice drifted into her head. _Trust you to meet a cute bloke and start talking about books written by some daft dead Greek._

_The _Iliad _is not a book, per se, _Hermione informed the imaginary Parvati. _It's an epic poem in dactylic hexameter- oh, dear, what am I doing-_

"I prefer the _Odyssey," _said the boy.

Hermione peered at him with interest. She realized with a jolt that they were almost the same height. He seemed to carry himself so much taller. "How come?"

This was good. This was very good. She knew her classics like the back of her hand; he could give some completely wrong, misinformed answer, and she could debate him, and she would be over this momentary attraction and they could be friends without her making a total cake out of herself.

His brow furrowed a little as he considered how to phrase his reply. "I suppose," he said slowly, "it's because the _Iliad _is about waging war, and the _Odyssey _is about coming home."

"Oh, bollocks," Hermione whispered, this time- and much to her horror- out loud.

Draco started. He wasn't up to date on British slang, but even _he_ recognized a swear word when he heard one. Had he unintentionally said something offensive? Were you supposed to like the _Iliad _better than the _Odyssey _in the United Kingdom? As standoffish as he could sometimes be, he didn't want to go around alienating people with his apparently appalling taste in literature. Particularly not this girl. She seemed nice, and she wasn't falling at his feet with scary aggressiveness like the other Hogwarts girls he'd met so far, or treating him with the patronizing, thinly-veiled amusement that the older Beauxbatons girls reserved for the lower year levels that even being in a foreign country could not erase.

"I beg your pardon?" he managed at last.

"I'm _terribly _sorry!" she squeaked, looking mortified. "I wasn't- I didn't mean-" Various emotions flickered across her face and Draco found himself staring, fascinated because he'd never met anyone who allowed herself to be read so easily.

Finally she sighed, looking resigned. "That was a good answer," she admitted. "It took me by surprise." She shook her head, as if to clear her thoughts. "What's your name?"

He couldn't remember at first, so absolutely charmed was he by her candor. "It's Draco," he said, wishing he wasn't holding the heavy book so he could shake her hand properly. He belatedly realized that he forgot to supply his last name, and was about to say it, when she tilted her head to the side, eyes sparkling.

"Like the lawgiver or the constellation?" she asked.

_Wow. _"The constellation. Something of a tradition in my family."

"And which family is that?"

"My mother's side. The House of Black."

Hermione looked startled. "Hmm, Black. Would you happen to be related to-" She caught herself. "Silly me. You're not British, of course."

Draco was about to explain to her that he actually _was_, by blood if not by nationality, but right at that moment Sabine's auburn head popped out from behind a shelf.

"There you are!" she cried. "I've been looking everywhere for you! Come on, we have to interview the champions."

"The tournament hasn't even begun," Draco protested.

Sabine raised an eyebrow. "I thought the hard-hitting journalist in you would jump at the chance to ask them about the cheating as soon as possible…" She trailed off, finally registering Hermione's presence. A wicked grin blossomed on her face. "Ah, I _see." _

Draco gritted his teeth, hoping against hope that the library's shadows were enough to conceal the flush in his cheeks. He didn't know if Hermione could understand French, but Sabine's suggestive tone left no room for doubt in any language. "It's not what you think-"

Sabine stuck out a hand to Hermione. "Hello!" she said in heavily accented English. "I am Sabine Gaillard. And you are, please?"

Hermione shook the proffered hand, smiling warmly. "Hermione Granger. It's nice to meet you."

"Same! So good of you to make friends with our Draco. He is very shy-"

"Okay! Time to go." Draco started using the considerable weight of _Hogwarts: A History _to push Sabine in the direction of the library doors.

"What is your _problem?"_ Sabine growled, switching back to French. "I'm trying to help you. Straight girls like shy boys, they think it's sweet-"

"Thank you again for the book, Hermione," Draco said over Sabine's chatter. "See you soon?"

"Yes," she replied, and he didn't know if it was just wishful thinking on his part compounded by the mellow afternoon light and the smell of parchment and ink, but the way she said it sounded like a promise, and it made him almost, _almost _want to grin. "Soon."

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	3. Waiting for the Heart of a Girl

**Notes:** To answer Yeddi's question (that some of you might also have) about Krum's role in the story, this fic will deviate from canon as little as possible, so almost everything that happened in GoF will happen here, albeit with a twist. Many thanks to those who gave feedback, as well as to those who followed and favorited! I'd especially like to acknowledge Layla's Lancaster for putting my mind at ease regarding the characterization (and you should totally write your own fic, I'd love to read it), and sunshiined for commenting on Sabine's character, as I'm rather nervous about OCs. Without further ado, here's the third chapter! Corrections, suggestions, and constructive criticism are very welcome. Oh, and I've decided not to write out accents because I can no longer remember how they were done in the book. Please let me know if it's too confusing!

* * *

**Chapter Three**

**Waiting for the Heart of a Girl**

* * *

"Blimey, what's come over you?"

Curled up in bed and staring into the pages of her book, Hermione at first assumed that Lavender was speaking to Parvati. However, when no reply seemed to be forthcoming from their other roommate, she looked up and found herself the object of Lavender's curious brown-eyed gaze.

"I don't know what you're on about," Hermione said defensively.

"You've been smiling at thin air the past half-hour!" Lavender accused. At this, Parvati paused in the act of giving her thick black hair its nightly one hundred strokes and turned from the mirror to regard Hermione with a quizzical expression, brush still in hand.

"Have not," Hermione crisply retorted. "I'm reading." She held up her battered copy of _The Once and Future King _like a shield, although now that she squinted at the page she was on, she noticed that she hadn't taken in a single word of it.

"Is that a romance novel, then?" asked Lavender in a tone dripping with skepticism. "Because only romance novels make people look like that, all far-off and moony."

"That- that is completely untrue!" Hermione sputtered.

"You're _still _smiling."

Hermione stopped trying to defend herself, opting instead for what she hoped was a sufficiently arctic silence. But the corners of her mouth were aching… oh, bloody hell, she was still smiling, wasn't she?

"Lavender," Parvati cooed, setting her brush down on the dressing table and moving closer to Hermione's bed, "I think our Miss Granger has started fancying someone at long last."

Lavender gasped, clapping her hands in delight. "Who is it, Hermione?"

"No one," Hermione automatically replied. She'd roomed with these two since first year, but she'd always hesitated to take them into her confidence. They just didn't have that much in common, her and them.

However, Draco's piercing gray eyes were still fresh in her mind, along with the way his voice went all smoky when he spoke in French. She really wanted to tell someone, she realized. It was one of those little, giggly, inconsequential things that were nice to share with a mother or a sister, and as of the moment she was sorely lacking in both. She tried to picture telling either Harry or Ron about the handsome boy she met at the library, and she shuddered.

Lavender and Parvati gathered at the foot of her bed and stared at her with eager expressions, heads close together, looking for all the world like a couple of baby Crups.

Hermione threw up her palms in defeat. "All right! But, look, it isn't a big deal, so don't do that- that squealing, holding-hands-while-jumping-up-and-down thing, okay?"

They nodded fervently.

"It's someone from Beauxbatons," Hermione confessed. "I met him earlier today."

Lavender and Parvati squealed. They held hands. They jumped up and down.

Hermione struggled not to roll her eyes, even though yet another smile played on her lips. Her roommates' enthusiasm was annoying, unbecoming, and totally infectious.

"Which one?" Parvati demanded. "Please don't say the bloke with the cheekbones and the curly hair, he's all I've ever wanted, oh, Hermione, I could never forgive you!"

"No, I'm sure that's not him," Hermione mused. Draco certainly had the beginnings of what would be a very sculpted pair of cheekbones when he grew older, but his hair had fallen fine and straight into his wet-slate eyes. "His name is Draco."

"That doesn't sound very French," remarked Lavender. "What's his last name?"

"I…" Hermione frowned. "I don't know."

Parvati gaped at her. "How could you not know?"

Hermione shrugged. "It never came up."

"So what did?" Lavender pressed. "What did you talk about?"

_Well, first I swore at him, and then I almost asked if he was related to someone whom the wizarding world still despises as a mass murderer, and then I- _Hermione forcibly shut down this disheartening train of thought. "Books, mostly," she said.

Lavender and Parvati groaned.

* * *

Draco woke up with a crick in his neck on Thursday, having fallen asleep face-down in a pile of schoolwork at the small desk in the room he shared with Bastien and two of the latter's classmates. He rushed through his morning ablutions, dressed, and practically leapt out of the carriage. His mother would have a fit at these undignified actions, but it was- as the British would say- sodding _freezing._

The seventh years were practicing _Flagrate _Spells outside the gamekeeper's hut. Under Madame Maxime's watchful eye, their synchronized wand movements left trails of fire that burned letters and numbers into the cold air.

Adrien Bellamy and Brys Desrosiers, a couple of eight-year boys, were leaning against the wooden cabin, observing the exercise with the languid, contented manner of those who had just eaten breakfast. Draco's stomach grumbled as he joined them.

"Isn't this a bit of a regression?" wondered Adrien. "We learned _Flagrate _in sixth."

"Don't you know what comes next?" Brys asked. "It's-"

"Now!" Madame Maxime boomed.

Wands cracked in unison, and the blazing symbols began to flash different colors, sending shards of rainbow light dancing through the faint mists. Draco was impressed. A Color Change Charm on top of a Conjuration Spell... he'd have to start practicing…

"Hey!" Adrien cried. "Monsieur Gosselin never taught us _that!"_

Brys looked at him, bemused. "Where _were _you in seventh year?"

"Under Jacqueline Sarkozy's robes," Adrien admitted with a wolfish grin.

The older boys sniggered, whereas Draco was a little traumatized by the sudden mental image of his no-nonsense editor-in-chief in certain compromising positions.

"Have either of you seen Sabine?" he asked.

Brys smirked. "Don't you two children have a buddy system?"

"No," Draco replied patiently, politely.

There was a brief silence.

Finally, Adrien said, "She's still at breakfast, I think."

Draco said his thanks and started up the path to the castle in a slight jog. Yesterday he'd managed to ask Cedric Diggory for his thoughts about the unexpected fourth champion, and then Fleur- although this latter interview was conducted in the presence of the _Directrice, _and with Draco ready to leap behind Bastien in case of another meltdown. Today he was planning to interview Viktor Krum, and then Harry Potter himself.

When Draco reached the front steps of the castle, he was panting from exertion, but his breath was still coming out in curls of fog. Great. Now he was cold _and _sweaty. This really was no way to live.

He found himself cheering up as he walked into the entrance hall, though. Maybe he'd get to see Hermione again.

* * *

By the time lunch rolled around, Draco was convinced Hermione Granger had been a figment of his imagination, a delusion brought about by his near-constant state of hypothermia. He couldn't find her at the Great Hall, or in the bustling corridors, or at the library where they met. The crick in his neck had worsened from him craning his head every which way in a futile attempt to catch a glimpse of bushy brown hair.

He did manage to spot Krum, though.

Draco and Sabine hurried over to the Bulgarian Seeker as he exited the Great Hall with Igor Karkaroff.

"Excuse me," Sabine said to Krum's shoulder in her careful English, "may we trouble you for an interview?"

Upper lip curling, Karkaroff looked down at Sabine in disdain, and then his gaze flickered to Draco and remained there. His demeanor suddenly changed. The Durmstrang Headmaster stepped back, a strangled cry of shock leaping from his throat, the color draining from his cheeks as if he'd seen a ghost.

Puzzled, Draco frowned. "Sir?"

"I-" Karkaroff stopped, licking his dry lips. "I must go. I must speak with Dumbledore." He disappeared into the crowd without another word.

"What was that about?" Sabine whispered in French, peering at Draco. "Do you have something on your face?"

Draco shrugged. He turned to Krum, who was regarding them expectantly, apparently used to his Headmaster's eccentricities.

Draco was a little star-struck, to be honest. Along with every other player on the fourth-year Quidditch team, he had a poster of Krum tacked to the wall above his bed. And now here he was, inches away from his idol. Noel would go into conniptions when he heard.

"What is your question?" Krum's accent was thick enough to be almost indecipherable, but his tone was polite. "Fast, please. I have lessons soon."

Draco took out a piece of parchment and his Quick-Quotes Quill, which he reserved only for rush interviews. It was one of the older models that didn't embellish a subject's words as much; _La Plume _had a strict policy against sensationalism. He bewitched the parchment to float in the air, and as the quill hovered above it, poised to record, he asked, "Mister Krum, how do you feel about competing with _two _Hogwarts champions? Do you think the host school is to be blamed for this…" _Illegitimacy _was the first English word that sprung to mind, but it was too negative. "Discrepancy?"

Krum's dark eyebrows knitted together in a look of intense concentration. "Is very suspicious," he said slowly. "But Dumbledore is a good man. And Harry Potter is… decent. We must not forget. I… have faith. That is all, thank you."

It was hardly the stuff of interview gold. He spoke English the same way he walked on the ground- a bit unsure, a bit clumsily.

But that was the way of Europe. You replied in the original language that a question had been asked in, if you knew it, no matter how awkward it felt on your tongue.

Draco decided to take a gamble. _"Parlez-vous français?"_

Krum's glum expression suddenly brightened. And then he was happily jabbering away in French, and Draco was firing off follow-up questions one after another as Sabine's camera whirred and clicked and the Quick-Quotes Quill scribbled rapidly on the parchment, and Krum was soaring, and Draco was having the time of his life.

* * *

Hermione spotted Harry at the far end of the corridor, chatting with Sabine, who held a camera to her chest. The crowd shifted to the left, affording Hermione a glimpse of white-blond hair. Heart racing, she elbowed her way through the throng of students.

A quill hovered in the air, jotting down Harry's replies on a piece of parchment. The Boy Who Lived looked slightly uneasy at having been cornered, but he relaxed when he noticed Hermione approaching. Sabine followed his gaze, and then poked Draco in the ribs.

Draco turned, and he didn't grin or wave, but his expression cleared and the corners of his mouth went soft.

"Er, this is Hermione, one of my best mates-" Harry began.

"We already met yesterday," Hermione informed him. "Hi, how are you?" she said to the Beauxbatons students.

"Very well, thank you," Sabine replied. Her eyes, a darker green than Harry's, sparkled with glee. "Draco has been looking for you all day-"

"_Tais-toi!" _Draco snapped at his classmate.

He was blushing. Draco Black Insert-Last-Name was a blusher. Hermione wanted to dance a jig right then and there.

Harry, meanwhile, was catching up with current events. "So, you all met yesterday…?"

"Yes," said Hermione. "At the library. They're interviewing you for their school newspaper, I presume?"

Harry nodded, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He looked tired. He wasn't at his best in the spotlight, but it haunted him everywhere, no matter how hard he tried to avoid it. Hermione felt a sudden surge of protectiveness.

"I do hope you're going easy on him," Hermione told Draco and Sabine. Her tone was breezy enough, but there was a stern current beneath it.

"That is not my call," said Sabine with an easy, understanding smile. "Draco is asking the questions. I am the photographer."

Hermione fixed Draco with her best I'm-watching-you stare, which was admittedly difficult to do to somebody she was finding more and more attractive with each passing second.

Draco squinted at his notes. He then cleared his throat, looked straight at Hermione, and asked, "So, how have you been?"

She could almost swear that her brain had short-circuited under those gray eyes. "All… all right, I suppose," she replied a little breathlessly. "Did you find the book useful?"

"Yes, I'm not finished yet, but it's interesting so far. Your school is very, ah, colorful. I like the part about the ghosts."

"You should talk to the Bloody Baron sometime," Hermione suggested. "He was a Frenchman, I believe, although he studied at Hogwarts because Beauxbatons wasn't around yet. It might cheer him up to hear the mother tongue."

Draco was already shaking his head. "I'm fine with just reading about him."

Hermione flashed a knowing grin. "He _is _awfully scary, isn't he? But _Hogwarts: A History _says so little about him… among other things," she finished on a dark note, scowling.

Draco tilted his head curiously. "Such as?"

"House-elves!" Hermione burst out. She dimly registered Harry groaning and putting his head in his hands, but she ignored him and barreled ahead. "The book is over a thousand pages long, but not once does it acknowledge Hogwarts' dependency on a system of oppression! There are more than a hundred enslaved creatures under our feet _right now!"_

Draco glanced at his shoes as if he were tempted to inspect their soles, but before Hermione could explain that it was a figure of speech, he asked, sounding perplexed, "What's wrong with house-elves?"

"And here I thought I was the one being interviewed," Harry muttered, although, to tell the truth, he sounded pleased by this temporary reprieve.

* * *

"Malfoy," said Sabine contemplatively as they made their way back to the carriage.

"Yes?"

"I hate to say this, but your little English rose is…" She pointed her index finger to her temple and rotated it, the universal gesture to indicate that someone was insane.

"Don't call her that."

"English rose, or crazy?"

"Both."

"You are _so _smitten," teased Sabine. When Draco didn't say anything, she continued in a more serious tone, "She's Muggleborn, I think. No one born into a wizarding family would kick up such a fuss over house-elves."

"I suppose."

"_La Belle Dame sans Merci _wouldn't-"

"This is none of my mother's business," Draco interrupted her. And then he added, as an afterthought, "And stop calling _her_ that, too."

"You know I won't stop," Sabine blithely replied. "I should've guessed you'd fall for Hermione's type, though."

Draco was too intrigued by this conversational turn to bother denying it. "What do you mean?"

"You hate beautiful women."

"And Hermione isn't beautiful?"

"She's _pretty," _Sabine clarified. "In a non-threatening sort of way. Her face doesn't distract you, so you can concentrate on other things, like actually talking to her. And talking is how you start to like someone."

"I don't like her. Not in that way."

His friend rolled her eyes. "Sure, all right."

* * *

Later that night, as he lay in bed, Draco couldn't deny the fact that he was thinking of Hermione Granger. Not of the way his heart had curiously lifted when he saw her emerge from the crowd, or the impassioned movement of her hands as she ranted about the unfair treatment of house-elves, but, rather, of the way she'd smiled.

After concluding the interview with Harry Potter- which had taken a great deal longer than expected, thanks to Draco and Hermione's conversational detour- Sabine had requested a picture of the Boy Who Lived and his best friend. The two had obliged, Harry slinging an arm around Hermione's slim shoulders as they gamely smiled for the camera. That was when Draco noticed that Hermione's two front teeth were larger than the rest. It was, of course, an imperfection, one that girls like Fleur and Cerise would have done their best to hide, but Hermione had grinned widely, totally unself-conscious, dimples peeking out from the curves of her cheeks, and Draco could only stare at her as the shutter clicked and the flash went off and stars danced in his eyes.

* * *

"You tried to get him to join Spew," Lavender said blankly.

Parvati merely shook her head in disbelief.

Hermione burrowed deeper under the covers. "It's not _Spew, _it's _S.P.E.W."_

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	4. Just Give Me Moments

**Notes: **Thank you once more for the lovely reviews, follows, and favorites! In this chapter I've lifted a few of Draco's lines verbatim from GoF. Can you guess which? As always, corrections, suggestions, and constructive criticism are very welcome. Happy holidays!

* * *

**Chapter Four**

**Just Give Me Moments**

* * *

Sunlight broke through the clouds, spilling rays of gold on the shadowy treetops of the Forbidden Forest, on the gilded accents of the powder-blue Beauxbatons carriage… and on the gray armored shells of the Blast-Ended Skrewts as they scuttled around in their crates outside Hagrid's hut.

"What _are _they?" Pansy looked and sounded as if she had swallowed a whole lemon, and also as if this question had been bothering her since September. "I mean, I know what they're called, but what _are _they? Insects, lobsters- _what?"_

"They're your long-lost cousins, Parkinson!" Seamus Finnegan hooted.

The Gryffindors laughed. The Slytherins scowled.

"I do so love the smell of inter-House rivalry after breakfast," Hermione remarked.

Harry glanced at the skrewts. "If there's a smell, Hermione, I think it's coming from this lot."

Ron chortled, but the sound was short-lived. He stopped himself and firmly turned away, as if he'd just remembered that he and Harry still weren't on speaking terms.

Hermione fought back a sigh. Boys were terribly immature. Right now, she had more important things to worry about, because Rubeus Hagrid was handing out leashes and dragon-hide gloves while turning a deaf ear to the students' groans.

It was time to take the skrewts for walkies.

_At least I get one of the females today, _Hermione thought darkly as she slipped a leash around her skrewt, which was smaller compared to the stinger-sporting males. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw flashes of pale blue silk. The Beauxbatons crowd was observing the lesson- if you could call it a lesson- with facial expressions that ranged from mild curiosity to pure, horrified disgust. She felt a wave of embarrassment as she imagined their unflattering opinions of her school's curriculum, and then she felt mad at herself for being embarrassed. With the exception of Draco and Sabine, the delegates had been getting on her nerves since that first evening when they'd made such a big show of hating the weather- which, really, hadn't been _that _cold at all! She didn't need to save face in front of these prissy brats.

Hermione had figured out early on that the best way to walk a skrewt was to just hold tight as it led you in any direction its slimy heart desired. They were like obnoxious Rottweilers, if Rottweilers could get you thrown into Azkaban for breeding them. She followed her skrewt as it wove over the ground, its suckers pulsing, and of course this deformed, repulsive monstrosity that smelled like rotten fish dragged her straight into Draco's path now, only a few days after she'd overwhelmed him with a speech on the rights of house-elves. Of course.

"Hello," she said, digging her heels into the ground and forcing the skrewt to stop, an action that was against her better judgment, but she didn't want to be impolite, after all, did she?

In her mind she could already envision Lavender and Parvati's knowing leers.

"Hello," Draco echoed.

This was her first time to see him in morning light, and she decided it didn't suit him. He was so pale that he appeared translucent at the edges, a boy made of winter. The skrewt's legs scrabbled in the dirt and he took a step back in faint alarm.

"If I made you feel uncomfortable in any way when we last talked, I'd like to apologize." _Yes, good, Hermione, that sounded very dignified, even if you _are _currently holding on to a vile crab creature. _"I've been told that I can come across a tad intense."

"I didn't mind," Draco assured her. "It was refreshing. I never thought of it that way before. But-" He hesitated. "Don't you have house-elves at home?"

"Oh, no, I'm Muggleborn. My parents are dentists."

"I see." He didn't seem surprised, as if she'd merely confirmed something he'd suspected. His lips curved in a small, lopsided smile, and in that moment he looked… sad, for some reason.

Before Hermione could ask him what was wrong, the skrewt tugged at its leash, forcing her to start walking again. To her surprise, Draco fell into step beside her.

"What do you call them?" he asked.

"Blast-Ended Skrewts."

He frowned. "Blast… Ended… Scoots?"

"Sk_r_ewts."

"Ah, never mind."

She laughed.

Their route- or, rather, the skrewt's route- took them to Hagrid, who was beaming at the scattered class' attempts to control their lethal charges with almost fatherly pride.

"Hullo, Hermione," said the gamekeeper in his rich West Country brogue. "See you've made a new friend- Galloping Gorgons!" He stared at Draco, slack-jawed, his dark eyes scurrying like frantic beetles as they took in every aspect of the boy's face.

"What is it, Hagrid?" Hermione wondered.

"I, uh…" Hagrid shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. "Silly me. Thought I'd gone back in time there for a second. You look like someone, lad. When he was young, at any rate. When we both were."

Hermione decided to make the introductions before things got even more awkward. "Hagrid, this is Draco. He's one of the Beauxbatons students," she added unnecessarily. It was obvious from the robes, but she had to say something else because as soon as he heard Draco's name, Hagrid's expression turned downright miserable.

Draco cleared his throat. "These are very strange creatures, Mister Hagrid," he said in a tone of polite interest. "What are they for?"

Hagrid blinked. "For?"

"I mean…" Draco's brow furrowed as he sought to make himself clear. "What do they do?" When the gamekeeper still looked confused, he tried again. "What is the point of them?"

"Oh! Well…" Hagrid scratched his beard, pondering this question. "Too early to tell, really. I expect I'll figure that out when they've grown a wee bit more. And stopped eating one another, of course…"

Draco froze. _"I beg your pardon?"_

Hermione's Blast-Ended Skrewt chose that particular instant to live up to its name and… blast off.

* * *

Sparks burst out from the end of the creature, propelling it forward. Hermione yelped as she was hauled off her feet. She would have fallen face-first in the dirt if Draco, with the quick reflexes borne from Noel's ruthless brand of Quidditch training, hadn't shot out his arms to grab her by the waist and pull her flush against him. She had the sense to let go of the leash, and the scoot, or whatever the hell it was called, scampered away, with Hagrid hot on its tail.

Panicked- or, more likely, inspired- by their fellow's bid for freedom, the other beasts flailed wildly and strained at their leashes. Caught off-guard, most of their handlers let go, while the unfortunate few who didn't were dragged along the ground on their stomachs. Some incensed scrotes- scooks?- began attacking one another, while others gave chase to the students, and soon the grounds had devolved into a mess of sparks, stingers, fluttering robes, and screams.

It was chaos. It was utter pandemonium, and, through it all, Draco held Hermione in his arms, his nose buried in hair that for all its frizz smelled like brown sugar and warm vanilla, which would have been extremely pleasant if the air wasn't already thick with the odor of rotting fish. He could feel the curves of her slender waist beneath the shapeless Hogwarts robes, the subtle arcs of her shoulder blades pressing into his chest, the warmth emanating from her petite frame that made him want to tighten his grip so he could absorb all of it into his bloodstream.

Blood was exactly the problem, wasn't it?

"This is a _disaster!"_ Hermione cried.

"Yes," said Draco. "It is."

His schoolmates had wisely edged away as soon as the mayhem erupted, except for Bastien, Sabine, and Adrien, who were doubled over in mirth. Bastien was even wiping tears from his eyes. But when one of the monsters whirled around and headed straight for them, merriment faded into full-blown horror and the three students scrambled backwards, swearing loudly.

Draco couldn't help it. He chuckled.

"Ah." Hermione looked back at him, her ear brushing against his lips. Sunlight splintered on the tips of her long, thick eyelashes as her fingers curled momentarily around his wrists. "He laughs, folks."

"Malfoy!" Adrien hollered. _"Watch out!"_

Draco glanced up to see an errant Stunning Spell fly over the godforsaken creature and head straight for him and Hermione. Before he even had time to react, the girl elbowed him out of harm's way- strong enough to send him reeling to the ground- and whipped out her wand, yelling, _"Protego!"_

The Shield Charm shimmered in the air, trembling when the red beam of the Stunning Spell crashed into it, and it was one of the most beautiful things Draco had ever seen, Hermione's brown eyes fierce in the aftershock.

"Sorry I had to push you," she said calmly. "Are you all right?"

"You saved me."

She smirked. "You saved me first."

"We make a good team," he remarked.

"Yes." She looked oddly wistful as she extended a hand to help him up. "We do, don't we?"

* * *

"So who was that pointy bloke hanging on to you, then?" Ron demanded with a touch of belligerence.

He was in a foul mood because of the huge burn on his forehead, a result of his skrewt pulling him to the ground and then blasting sparks in his face, also the reason Hermione was currently accompanying him to the hospital wing to see Madam Pomfrey.

Hermione decided to be honest. He would find out sooner or later, anyway. "His name is Draco. I met him in the library last week. And I've also just discovered that he's Lucius' son."

It explained so many things, of course. When that other Beauxbatons boy had misfired the spell and shouted "Malfoy," it all clicked into place. Why Draco looked so familiar. Why Hagrid had been so taken aback. Draco was the mysterious son in France.

What it didn't explain was the unerringly polite way he treated her even though he knew she was Muggleborn. The softness in the lines of his lips that belied his gray eyes, which, while a trifle emotionless, contained none of the hard evil that lurked in Lucius'.

"Blimey!" Ron exclaimed. "Well, at least now you know, so you can steer clear..."

Hermione paused, one foot on the top step of the staircase. "And why would I want to do that?"

"What d'you mean?" Ron cried. "He's Malfoy Junior! He's the spawn of the devil!"

"He's not his father. In fact, if you meet him, you'll find he's actually quite-"

"Why in blazes would I want to _meet _him? Hermione, you have to stop seeing this git!"

"Where do you get off telling me what to do, Ronald?" she shouted.

"You're _fraternizing with the enemy!" _he bellowed. "He's a Malfoy _and _a Beauxbatons student! He's _double _the enemy-"

"That doesn't even make any mathematical sense whatsoever!"

Ron pointed a shaking finger at her. "When he finds out you're not pure-blood like him, he's going to-"

"He already knows!" she snapped. "When I lost control of my skrewt, he caught me before I hit the ground, and that was _after _I told him my parents were dentists. Hardly Death Eater material, don't you think?"

Ron wouldn't give up. "Then he's using you to get to Harry! He's trying to sabotage-"

Hermione clenched her fists. She had never slapped anyone before and she wasn't about to start now. "For your information, he befriended me _before _he found out that Harry and I are close! And- speaking of Harry- how _dare _you bring him into this? You've been perfectly awful to him since Halloween! And right at a time when he needs you the most!"

"That is- that is completely beyond the point!" sputtered Ron.

"Then what _is _your point, Ronald?" she hissed. "That the only things about me that matter are my blood status and my friendship with Harry? Because if that's the case, you're doing a _brilliant _job making your point! Clear as crystal!"

"You know that's not what I meant! Stop putting words in my mouth!"

"Then stop putting your _foot _in it!"

Furious, Hermione stalked away, leaving Ron fuming at the top of the stairs.

* * *

Ron was avoiding both Harry and Hermione now. Mealtimes at the Gryffindor table had become a tense, awkward affair, which would have been terrible for the digestion if Hermione wasn't eating as little as possible in protest of Hogwarts' house-elf system.

"Your bloke is _cute, _Hermione,"Lavender gushed over the roast chicken. "The way he swooped in to save you from the skrewts- so dashing!"

"It wasn't as if I was in mortal danger,"Hermione protested, with an uneasy glance at Ron, who was glowering at his goblet of pumpkin juice so fiercely it was surprising that it didn't burst into flames, and then at Harry, who was slicing his lamb chops with a focused, determined air that gave away the fact that he was hanging on to every word of the conversation.

"I wonder how he'd look in black," Parvati mused. "He's too pale for his school robes, isn't he?"

"I don't mind," said Lavender. "The color brings out his eyes, yeah?"

The two girls tittered.

Hermione couldn't resist glancing at the Ravenclaw table. She accidentally made eye contact with one of the Beauxbatons boys who'd been chased by the skrewt. He broke out into a grin, and then elbowed Draco. Before the latter could look her way, however, a very embarrassed Hermione returned her attention to her almost-bare plate.

The incident in Care of Magical Creatures was currently a featured topic of gossip. For the past few days, Hermione had been enduring the sly and teasing winks from her classmates, as well as Dean Thomas and Seamus' gruesome imitations of a French accent. She and Draco had spoken only once since then, a hurried exchange of greetings in the hallways which Hermione couldn't endure for long because of Fred and George Weasley's catcalls. How in blazes had the _twins _found out? Word certainly travelled fast around here.

She wanted time alone with him, like their first meeting at the library. She wanted a quiet place where they could talk and she could be free to notice all the little details about him, like the slight furrow in his brow whenever he spoke in English, or the way he folded his right hand into his pocket when he walked, a casual gesture that was incongruous to the aristocratic tilt of his chin.

One of her older female cousins had told her once that fancying someone made you selfish, but Hermione only wanted… moments. Little bits of time when he could be hers.

Maybe she _was _being a tad selfish, at that.

Swept up in the throng of students spilling out of the Great Hall after supper, Hermione didn't register Draco's presence until a tentative voice murmured, almost in her ear, "Good evening."

She almost jumped back, startled by his nearness. "Good evening," she echoed.

The tips of his ears pinked as he belatedly realized how close they were standing to each other. "I apologize," he mumbled, retreating a few steps. "Someone pushed me."

"They didn't mean to, I'm sure. It's awfully crowded." She tapped Harry on the shoulder. "Harry, it's Draco."

Hermione suppressed a flutter of trepidation as the two boys looked at each other. When she'd brought Harry up to speed on Draco's parentage, he hadn't thrown a Weasley fit, but he'd been visibly disgruntled. How was he going to act now? He wasn't the confrontational type, but he tended to be on edge whenever Lucius was concerned.

She needn't have worried. Harry gave a polite nod. "All right, Draco?"

"Yes, fine," Draco replied just as courteously. "Are you nervous for the first task?"

Harry glanced around as if expecting Sabine to pop out and wave her camera in his face at any second.

"This is not an interview," Draco assured him. "Just small talk."

"Oh, well, in that case..." Harry looked at Hermione, unfortunately right when she was still a little dazed by how the flickering torchlight turned Draco's hair into gold. His lips quirked. "I'll leave you to it, then. I have, er, homework." With a half-hearted wave, he vanished into the crowd.

Draco frowned after him. "Have I offended-?"

"Not at all," Hermione said quickly. "He's in a rush. Tons of essays to write before tomorrow morning, you know." She was going to kill him! The last thing she needed right now was Harry Potter's obvious, fumbling attempts at matchmaking.

Draco cleared his throat, an action she was coming to recognize as one of his nervous tics, and which she found absolutely endearing. "What about you? How is school?"

Hermione sighed. "It's a mess. I'm completely behind on orthogonal polynomials and Wenlock integrations, and I can't make heads or tails out of this particular logographic system which Professor Babbling _says _is Luwian, but it must be a saturated script because there are _definitely _elements of Vannic-" _Okay, Hermione Jean, turn off the babble tap before he drowns. _"I'm sorry. I'm overwhelming you again, aren't I?"

Draco smiled. He really should smile more often; it transformed his haughty features, made him look younger and somewhat hopeful. "You always overwhelm me."

Hermione briefly wondered if she should apologize again, but… he said it like she didn't need to, like it wasn't a bad thing. The words came out like a quiet confession in that noisy hallway, and for a while the world was made up of nothing but the two of them and the torchlight casting shadows on the angles of Draco's face.

The illusion was broken when a sneering Pansy sauntered past them, flanked by Theodore Nott, Vincent Crabbe, and Gregory Goyle.

"I didn't know Mudbloods were all the rage in France," she remarked to the air. "Must be an acquired taste." Crabbe and Goyle sniggered, while Nott merely smirked.

"What does that mean?" Draco asked Hermione when the Slytherins had gone. "That word, 'Mudblood'?"

"It means people like me," Hermione told him softly. "Muggleborn."

"I understand." He looked stricken. _"Sang-de-Bourbe."_

Her eyes narrowed. "Of course you'd have your own term for it," she said bitterly. "Prejudice truly _is_ global, isn't it?"

And then she was- not running, no, because Hermione Jean Granger would never run from those who thought she was filth. She would attack, she would make them eat their words, but she would never run away.

* * *

Draco Malfoy had never run after anything in his whole life. Aside from it being terribly undignified, what was the point, when all he had to do was ask for the things that he wanted and they were given to him?

But he was definitely walking hurriedly now, the crowd jostling him every which way until he finally had to resort to using his elbows. Murmuring excuses to the people he pushed aside, he followed Hermione up several flights of stairs, his gaze fixated on the billowing edges of her black robes. At last, when he was good and winded, she stopped in front of one of the many portraits lining the walls of Hogwarts and muttered something under her breath. The portrait swung inward and she was about to step through the opening, when he realized they were alone on the seventh-floor landing and he could raise his voice without making a scene.

"Hermione, wait!"

She stopped, remaining motionless until he caught up to her. The world was nothing but stone and torchlight and her delicate profile cast in shadow.

"The thing is," she said into the silence, "it never used to bother me before. That word, I mean. I wasn't born into this world- I suppose that's the problem, right?" She gave a harsh laugh that made his heart clench. "I first heard it when I was thirteen, so it was just a word, for a while. But as time passed, and I kept getting called that when I wasn't getting called bucktoothed or a know-it-all… and after what happened at the World Cup… it began to matter, you know? People made it matter. People like-"

"Like what?" Draco asked when she didn't continue. "Like _what, _Hermione?"

"People like you," she whispered. "Pure-bloods."

Draco felt like all the air had gone out of him. "I'm not Slytherin," he insisted, desperate to make her understand, to make her _see. _"My mother is… traditional, but I'm-"

"Why don't you _care?" _Hermione burst out, turning to face him, her features angry and wounded. "You're a _Malfoy! _Your father-"

"I haven't met my father," he told her in a rush. "My mother raised me by herself in France."

She stared at him, pale with shock. "Then you don't _know?"_

"No, what?" he practically snapped with impatience. He was so confused, so lost in this strange new world across the Channel, where he had to mentally translate before he spoke, where the teachers looked at him as if he were an unpleasant memory…

When Hermione didn't reply, he reverted to the original topic. "It doesn't matter to me," he said. "Any of it. I only want…" He gritted his teeth in frustration. How could he explain himself in this cumbersome English language, in these mere _words- _"Moments. To know you more. To be your friend. Would you… can I have that, please?"

She didn't say anything for a long time, biting her lip. In the glow of the fires her unkempt hair was a halo, her eyes were Baltic amber, in less than two weeks she'd gone from pretty to blazingly gorgeous and he was panicking-

"Well, make up your mind, dear," ordered an irritated voice. The portrait was talking. "Going in, or staying out?"

"In a moment," Hermione responded automatically.

The plump woman in the frame humphed. "Do be quick. I haven't got all night."

"I should go," Hermione said to Draco. She hesitated, and then flashed him a small smile, her front teeth peeking out. "But I'll see you tomorrow, all right?"

"Yes," said Draco, heart pounding, already imagining his mother's icy disdain. This was going to be _so_ complicated, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "Yes," he repeated. "See you tomorrow."

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	5. Our Endless Numbered Days

**Notes:** Most of this chapter was written in an airport while I was stuck in transit during the holidays, so it's a bit rushed. Upon checking the Lexicon's GoF calender, I seem to have messed up the chronology a bit, so for consistency's sake let's just pretend there's an extra week in between the announcement of the four champions and the Weighing of the Wands, shall we? Also, the text of "The Language of Birds" is taken from _Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell_ by Susanna Clarke. Thank you once again for the reviews, follows, and favorites! For those of you who wondered where Snape is, his appearance is nigh! And for those asking if Krum will be Draco's rival, well... you'll see. I promise to make the next update more substantial. Corrections, suggestions, and constructive criticism are very welcome.

* * *

**Chapter Five**

**Our Endless Numbered Days**

* * *

Harry was waiting for Hermione in the common room. The portrait swung shut behind her, and she raised an eyebrow at him.

He grinned sheepishly. "Thought you'd like some time alone with your… chap."

"Harry," Hermione sighed, pursing her lips.

"If you're going to ask what I think about him being a Malfoy," he said quickly, "it's… well, not ideal. But he seems decent, and you know I like it when you're happy. And, um, just be careful, all right?"

She hugged him, feeling a rush of gratitude for understanding friends, and for boys who were not like their fathers. He returned the embrace a bit awkwardly, and then she drew back and looked into his green eyes.

"This wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that it's irritating Ron, would it?" she asked with a trace of suspicion.

Harry shrugged even as his grin widened. "That's a little bonus, yeah."

* * *

On Tuesday, Draco walked Hermione to History of Magic. This was very brave of him, considering that Ron was sending sour glances in their direction and the other Gryffindors were making kissy faces at their backs.

As they made their way to Professor Binns' classroom, he watched her adjust the strap of her book bag out of the corner of his eye. He held out a hand. "Shall I?"

She looked at him blankly. "Shall you what?"

"Carry your bag for you."

"Oh, no, that's quite all right, I can manage-"

"I should like to," he said quietly.

Behind him, Lavender pretended to go into a swoon.

"Well, okay, if you insist-" Flustered, Hermione handed him her bag, and only his pride prevented Draco from groaning under the weight. What did she put in here, bricks?

"_Awww!" _Lavender and Parvati cooed.

Hermione's head snapped around and she shot her roommates her most waspish glare.

* * *

On Wednesday, Draco invited Hermione to watch the eight-year students' lessons during her afternoon break. They made themselves comfortable on the carriage steps as Madame Maxime walked the class through a series of advanced Transfiguration spells. She conjured swarms of angry hornets out of thin air, which the eight years had to change into feathers or else suffer being on the receiving end of dozens of painful stings.

It was not going well.

"_Les plumes!" _the giantess barked, waving her hands in despair. "Not rocks, not cigarettes- you devils, thinking of cigarettes at such a young age! Desrosiers, _why _did you turn the hornets into African honey bees? Defeating the purpose!"

"What's she saying?" Hermione whispered to Draco.

He translated for her as best as he could, until Sumaya Hassan somehow managed to Transfigure all the hornets into ball pythons and everyone gave up and scattered.

"I'm covered in snakes!" Adrien wailed, flapping his arms. _"Why am I covered in snakes?"_

"_Finite Incantatem!" _roared Madame Maxime.

"Well," Hermione remarked as the _Directrice _stomped off and the now reptile-free eight years composed themselves and sulkily nursed their injuries, "that was educational."

"It was," Bastien agreed, sauntering over to them, admirably cool despite the fact that he was sporting several burns from when he'd tried to Vanish the cigarettes as they came hurtling towards him and accidentally lit them instead. "We learned that Adrien screams like a little girl."

* * *

Later that night, as Draco jotted down notes from _La langue des oiseaux,_ the thirty-second chapter of _Le grimoire des créatures de la magie, _Bastien said, "I like your English rose."

Draco sighed. "You and Sabine need to stop discussing my personal life." He glanced back at the room and was relieved to see the two other boys snoring away on their respective beds.

Bastien leaned against his headboard with a luxurious stretch. "I must confess, Malfoy, I expected your taste to be more-" He yawned. "Refined."

Draco's quill scratched industriously on the parchment. _There is nothing else in magic but the wild thought of the bird as it casts itself into the void. Even the least of them may fly straight out of this world and come by chance to the Other Lands._

"Don't get me wrong," continued Bastien, "Hermione is very pretty. But she's not…"

"Like Fleur?" Draco bit out.

The older boy chuckled. "Still haven't forgiven her for that prank in the carriage on the way over? A bit of Veela charm never hurt anyone. And at least she stopped before you did something foolish, like jump out the window to impress her."

_Where the language of the wind and the rain and the trees can be understood, _Draco wrote, _there we will find the Raven King._

"It's a defense mechanism, you know." Bastien's tone became solemn. "Fleur's been called beautiful her whole life, and that's sort of messed her up. Now she thinks it's all people see when they look at her."

Draco couldn't resist. "So she tries to make boys jump out of windows?"

"She tries to make men understand what she is," corrected Bastien. "She tries to convince them that it's all an illusion- a dangerous one, to scare them off. That way, she doesn't have to bother with the inevitable drama when some poor soul discovers that underneath the face there's an emotionally unstable, psychotic shrew."

"Did you… care about her?" Draco asked cautiously. "Back when the two of you were-?"

"I could never convince her that what I felt wasn't just because of her looks," mused Bastien. "There were days when I couldn't even convince myself. I couldn't separate the magic from the witch." He yawned again. "My point, little fourth year, is that beautiful girls are crazy. Believe me, you're _much _better off."

* * *

On Thursday, Draco was subjected to Hermione's own brand of craziness as she knitted hats and socks for the house-elves while they sat by the lake. Dusk was just starting to set in, turning the water sapphire blue. He watched her hands work furiously, looping needle and thread while she ranted about labor codes and fair wages.

She broke off all of a sudden. "You don't care about the rights of house-elves at all, do you?"

At first, he considered lying in order to maintain diplomatic relations, but then decided to go with the truth. "I care that you care."

"Smooth." She threw a balled-up sock at him, which he caught deftly in one hand as if it were a woolly Snitch. She must have been thinking along those same lines, because she asked, "So what made you pick your newspaper over Quidditch this term?"

It was one of those private questions, those strangely intimate things Draco had never been good at. "I needed a break," he told her vaguely, and she smiled at him like she knew that wasn't a real answer.

He continued watching the movements of her hands until the shadows lengthened and the lights of the castle flared in the distance. "Shall we go in for supper?"

"Go on, if you like," she replied cheerfully. "I'm not hungry, and I need to finish at least twenty of these if I'm to get any homework done tonight."

Draco's stomach was rumbling, but he liked this, having her all to himself, away from their nosy friends. _"Lumos," _he murmured, and his wand lit up. He shone its beam on her so she could see her stitches better. His hand shook slightly in the cold, but her eyes were warm.

* * *

Since Harry and Ron were still reenacting the Cold War, Hermione found herself coming to appreciate the company of her roommates more and more. She'd gotten closer to them due to their nighttime conversations about Draco, the Beauxbatons boy Parvati fancied, and Lavender's Muggle boyfriend back home in Surrey, who had no idea she was a witch.

"I told him I go to Le Rosey in Switzerland," Lavender confided. "So it's a tad awkward because he thinks I'm posh and he's, well, in a band."

"But you _are _posh," said Parvati. "Your family has a coat-of-arms!"

"Don't your parents care that you're dating a Muggle?" Hermione asked.

"Mum and Dad wouldn't mind if they knew," said Lavender. "Or, well, they _might, _a bit-"

"Lavender-" Hermione began.

The other girl cut her off. "No, listen. My parents aren't like the Notts or- or the Malfoys-" She uttered this last name in an apologetic tone- "but it's still different for us, see? We don't really… mix. We're used to one way of doing things. Adam, though, he makes me want- something else. It'll take Mum and Dad a while to come around, but I'm picking the right time to tell them. Adam is… he's worth it," she finished with a blush.

"And when he visits at your place and the portraits start talking, what then?" Parvati asked dryly.

"He's in a band," Lavender repeated, tittering. "He'll think he's just delirious from all the hash."

They didn't always talk about boys, though. As they made their way to the next half of Double Potions after lunch, Lavender and Parvati were busily espousing the virtues of Divination to Hermione, when they were brought up short by the scene unfolding outside the dungeons.

The Slytherins had cornered Harry, all of them wearing badges on their chests that glowed green with the words POTTER STINKS!

"Oh, very funny," Hermione snapped at Pansy, who was howling with laughter, "really witty."

"Want one?" The other girl held out a badge to her. "Theodore made loads. But don't touch my hand, I've just washed it- don't want a Mudblood sliming it up-"

"Get stuffed, Parkinson!" Lavender shouted, stepping in front of Hermione with a protective air.

Blaise Zabini's lip curled. "We're all terribly disappointed in you, Brown. It's quite ghastly, really, how your parents raised you to be such a Mudblood lover-"

Harry drew his wand. People scrambled backwards.

"Harry!" said Hermione in alarm. She knew breaking point when she saw it.

Just up ahead, two familiar figures rounded the corridor, and she belatedly remembered that Draco and Sabine were taking photographs of the classrooms today. The Beauxbatons students took in the scene, and then they were hurrying over to them as Blaise egged Harry on, and then incantations were being yelled and the white heat of two jinxes were lighting up the gloomy underground passage, ricocheting off each other at angles-

"Hermione!" Draco's hands were inches from her shoulders, about to push her out of the way, but it was too late. Blaise's spell hit her in the face.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	6. Sins of the Father

**Notes:** Thank you once again for the feedback! To all those who followed and favorited, I would love to hear your thoughts as well. Most of the scenes in this chapter are lifted from GoF, because I'm staying at my parents' over the break and I can finally check with my copy of the book. Yay! As always, corrections, suggestions, and constructive criticism are very welcome. This part is more intense and sets the stage for one of the main conflicts. Hope you like!

* * *

**Chapter Six**

**Sins of the Father**

* * *

Draco kept his gaze focused on Hermione as she clutched at her mouth, because he had the sick feeling that if he so much as glanced at the boy who'd hexed her, he'd come up fists swinging. And Malfoys did _not _fisticuff. It simply wasn't done.

The redhead- Ron, was it?- shouldered him aside and dragged Hermione's hand away from her face. Her two front teeth were elongating rapidly, growing towards her chin with alarming speed.

Draco stared into her wide panic-stricken brown eyes, racking his brain for a counter-curse. Would _Finite Incantatem _work? But that might only stop the growth, not return her teeth to normal-

"And what," an oily voice softly demanded, "is all this noise about?"

The Potions master loomed up in front of them, his black robes melting into the shadows. Draco had seen Severus Snape during meal times at the Great Hall, but never this up close before. He was a thin, sallow-skinned man with greasy black hair and a hooked nose. His dark eyes gleamed with spite- or perhaps Draco was just imagining things because of all the stories the Gryffindors had told him.

However, it soon became apparent why Hermione and her friends disliked Snape. He pointed a finger at the boy who'd hexed Hermione and said, "Zabini, explain."

"Potter attacked me, sir-"

"We attacked each other at the same time!" Harry shouted.

"- and he hit Goyle. Look." Zabini jabbed his thumb towards his cohort imperiously. Harry's hex had covered the hulking, broad-shouldered boy's face in boils.

"Hospital wing, Goyle," Snape directed calmly.

"Zabini got Hermione!" cried Ron. "Look!"

He forced Hermione to show Snape her teeth, which had now grown past her collar. The other Slytherins were doubled over in silent laughter, pointing at her with expressions of malicious glee. Draco's fists clenched. He might punch someone, after all.

Snape looked at Hermione and said in a cold voice, "I see no difference."

Hermione's eyes welled up with tears. She glanced at Draco, looking absolutely mortified, and then fled up the corridor. He was about to follow her, but Sabine stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"No." She shook her head. "You will only be able to give her pity, and she doesn't need that right now."

Harry and Ron were shouting at Snape, calling him several names that would have made even Madame Maxime raise an eyebrow. Snape silkily deducted House points and gave them detentions, and the rage built up inside Draco because this was not how a teacher should act. It wasn't _fair. _It wasn't _just._

He marched up to Snape, who had his back to him, still facing Harry and Ron. "That was most abhorrent, sir," he said in his stiffest, frostiest voice, and for a moment it wasn't just him speaking, it was hundreds of well-bred generations of Blacks and Malfoys expressing their utmost disdain for the things they found contemptible. "You do your profession a great disservice."

The hallway went still. The Hogwarts students gaped at him in fascinated horror, and as Snape slowly turned around, Draco's future flashed before his eyes. He would get sent back to France in disgrace, they'd kick him off the newspaper staff for failing to complete his article, his mother would _sniff _at him because he defended a Muggleborn-

Nothing in his life could have prepared Draco for what actually happened next. Snape looked at his robes, and then at his face. His sneer faded. He grabbed Draco by the shoulders, holding him at arm's length.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed in rough but passable French. "Where is your mother?"

"I fail to see how that's any of your business," Draco snapped, shocked but rallying.

"Don't play games with me!" Snape shook him hard enough to make his teeth rattle. _"Where is Narcissa?"_

Draco's first instinct was to demand an explanation for this rude behavior, but he could see the flicker of concern lurking underneath the man's brusqueness. Snape was probably an old friend of his mother's, as appalling as that thought was, and he must have noted Draco's resemblance to her, or to Lucius. He must have been worried about Narcissa's sudden disappearance years ago.

"She's in France," Draco quietly replied. "She crossed the Channel during the war."

Snape let go of him, his relief visible for only a second before his sallow features had composed themselves into a smooth mask.

"Next time," he said, "don't tell just anyone who asks."

He stalked into his classroom, followed by his students, many of whom cast speculative glances at Draco before disappearing through the doorway. Draco absent-mindedly rubbed the bruises on his shoulders, wondering, not for the first time, exactly what his mother had left behind.

* * *

Hermione found Draco waiting for her outside the hospital wing, leaning against the wall, one hand in his pocket as usual. He straightened up the instant he spotted her.

"Your castle's layout is very confusing," he said conversationally. "And the paintings are most unhelpful. I had to ask the Bloody Baron for directions to your infirmary."

Despite his casual words, his eyes searched her face as if he wanted to reassure himself that she was all right. This only made her want to burst into tears again, so she studiously avoided his gaze as they fell into step down the corridor.

"May I walk you to class?" he offered. "I cannot take long, unfortunately. I have to be present for the Weighing of the Wands."

"What's that?"

"I'm… unsure. It's a Triwizard thing."

Hermione shook her head firmly. "I'm not going back to Double Potions today."

"I'll walk you to the library, then."

She almost, _almost _looked at him. "How did you know-?"

"Because you'll want to study for the lessons you're missing. Because you're going to ace Snape's next exam and show him that you're his best student, no matter what he thinks of you."

She couldn't help but smirk. "You know me too well."

Draco's side brushed against hers as they began climbing up the stairs. "Yes, none of your secrets are safe."

She almost missed a step. "Was that an actual _joke? _Did you just try to make me laugh on _purpose?"_

"No wonder you and Sabine get along," he muttered.

He was obviously going out on a limb in an attempt to lift her spirits, and it was working. By the time they reached the library, Hermione was in a decidedly much better mood.

"Well, goodbye," she said, smiling at him. "Have fun. I'll see you at supper."

He did a double take. "Your teeth…"

Her grin widened, although somewhat nervously. "I _may _have let Madam Pomfrey shrink them a little bit more than how they normally were. Mum and Dad won't be thrilled, I'm sure- they wanted me to keep on with my retainer, but I always forget to put that on at night, and, anyway, it looks so much better now, doesn't it- not that I'm a raving beauty or anything, but-"

He snatched up her wildly gesticulating hands and held them in his, putting a stop to her babble. He had long, elegant fingers; they curled around her wrists in a soothing motion, very nearly a caress, and she felt herself calming down, coming off the adrenaline high that anxiety always induced in her.

"I am sorry I could not protect you today," he told her softly. "I will endeavor to do so in the future."

Hermione didn't know whether to laugh from the sudden burst of shyness that overtook her or to hug Draco with a sort of relieved gratitude for not making this awkward, for somehow knowing exactly what to say, and so she did both.

* * *

Sabine and Rita Skeeter hated each other at first sight. The _Daily Prophet _journalist, whose wildly malicious articles often caused the _La Plume _staff to shake their heads in disgust, muttered a derisive remark about school publications, which made the French girl bristle. As soon as Rita steered Harry in the direction of the broom cupboard, Sabine followed, with Draco trailing reluctantly after her.

"This is a _private _interview," Rita informed the two Beauxbatons students.

"We are entitled to the scoop as well," Sabine retorted. "Reporters' privilege, do you see?"

"I don't think that applies here," Draco murmured in French, but his friend waved him off as if he were nothing more than an annoying fly.

"The Headmaster has assured me and my colleague that we shall have Hogwarts' full cooperation in matters relating to our piece," continued Sabine, lifting her chin in a challenging manner. "You would like to discuss this with Dumbledore, perhaps? We can wait."

Rita glared at her, but her scarlet-lipped smile was saccharine. "What was your name again, dear?"

"Sabine Gaillard. And this is Draco Malfoy."

Rita's eyes gleamed behind her spectacles and her smile turned predatory as she aimed it at Draco. "How _interesting. _No wonder you looked so familiar. I didn't know Lucius' son went to Beauxbatons. Perhaps you would like to give me an exclusive-"

"Thank you, but no," Draco replied implacably. "My family's affairs are not tabloid fodder."

"The _Daily Prophet _is hardly a tabloid." The reporter looked irritated as she dragged Harry into the cupboard.

Draco turned to Sabine. "Are you sure this is wise? Maybe we should just-"

"You know what that woman's like," Sabine hissed. "She's a notorious poison-pen. She's going to twist Harry's words out of context, you'll see. Come on."

They squeezed into the small space. Draco raised an eyebrow when he saw the Quick-Quotes Quill, but before he could warn Harry, Rita was already firing off questions.

"He already told you he did not enter!" snapped Sabine after a while. "What kind of journalism is this?"

"Please grant me the courtesy of letting me do my job, thank you," Rita primly replied. "Harry, can you remember your parents at all?"

"No," Harry answered.

"Is this an article on the champions or the war?" Sabine questioned Rita. "You can't just-"

As the two women argued, Harry turned to Draco. "Did you see Hermione?" he asked in an undertone. "How is she?"

"She is fine, given the circumstances," Draco replied. "Madam Pomfrey fixed her up."

"That's good," said Harry, nodding.

"Harry, how do you think your parents would feel if they knew you were competing in the Triwizard Tournament?" Rita asked. "Proud? Worried? Angry?"

"How on earth is he to know that?" Sabine cried, truly annoyed now.

Harry ignored them. "What was that Snape said to you? Thought you were in for it."

"He knew my mother," said Draco. "I suppose he was just curious-"

"Hey!" yelled Sabine, pointing an accusing finger at the Quick-Quotes Quill. "He has _not _got tears in his eyes!"

The door of the cupboard was pulled open, revealing the twinkling blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore as he stood there looking at the four of them.

"Dumbledore!" Rita gushed in delight, snapping shut the clasp of her crocodile-skin bag. Her quill and parchment had mysteriously disappeared.

Draco, Harry, and Sabine extricated themselves from the cupboard as the two adults went through the social pleasantries. Finally, Dumbledore turned to Draco and Sabine.

"Ah, our intrepid reporters from _La Plume!" _he jovially declared. "Madame Maxime has told me so much about the two of you. Sabine and… Draco." His gaze lingered on the boy's face and clouded over with some kind of memory.

* * *

At supper that evening, Ron passed the sprouts to Hermione without her having to ask.

"He stood up to Snape for you," he muttered begrudgingly, "so I guess he's all right, even if he _is _Lucius' spawn. Maybe his mum's nice." This was Ron-speak for _I'm sorry I was such a jerk._

"Hmm," she said, which was Hermione-speak for _I forgive you._

* * *

Narcissa's head was in the fireplace of the Beauxbatons carriage, her blonde hair mingling with the flames as they danced through the smoldering logs. The other students had retreated into their chambers, either out of respect for Draco's privacy or- more likely- out of a healthy fear for _La Belle Dame sans Merci._

"One of the professors here asked about you," Draco told her. "The Potions master, Snape."

Narcissa tensed. "I didn't know Severus taught at Hogwarts." She looked hunted for a second, and then she exhaled, her features rearranging themselves into that distant, closed-off expression she always bore every time she talked about her past. "No matter. That was a long time ago. It's all over now."

"What is?"

"The war," she replied with finality. It was clear from her tone that she would not entertain further discussion of the subject.

"Do I look like you, or like Father?" Draco asked.

She sighed. "I had hoped that the people there wouldn't make the connection- or at least, be discreet about it. After all these years, I'd forgotten how unsubtle the British can be. Severus must have thought he'd gone back in time, at first."

"Him among others." Draco proceeded to tell her about Hagrid and Karkaroff. She rolled her eyes at the mention of the former, but the latter's name made her already pale face lose what little color it had.

"You will stay away from Igor Karkaroff," she ordered. "He is not a good man."

"You haven't answered my question," Draco reminded her.

She studied him quietly, her blue eyes softening. "You look like your father, _mon trésor," _she said at last. She sounded wistful. "You look more and more like him every time I see you."

"Tell me about him," Draco urged, leaning forward. "Tell me why you left. Tell me everything."

"No." The wistfulness had disappeared, replaced by pain. "I will not have you haunted by my ghosts."

* * *

When Draco left his quarters the next day, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he was dimly aware that the conversation in the living room came screeching to halt. He blinked. Fleur, Cerise, Jacqueline, Bastien, and Sabine were gathered at the fireplace; they'd been huddled around what looked like an English newspaper, but once he'd appeared they'd all turned to stare at him with something suspiciously close to apprehension.

"Good morning," yawned Draco. Weekends always made him drowsy. "What's that?"

His schoolmates glanced at one another.

"Nothing," Jacqueline said quickly. And, because she could never resist getting in a dig at British publications,even though she subscribed faithfully to a lot of them, she added, "Just shoddy journalism, that's all."

Draco smirked. "Rita Skeeter's piece came out, then? Let's have a look."

Sabine stepped forward. "Actually, Malfoy, I was thinking we ought to go to breakfast! I'm famished, aren't you?"

"Yes, all right," Draco agreed. "After I read the article."

"You don't need to. It's useless drivel," Bastien said with forced cheer. "I hear they're serving crêpes today-"

"What," said Draco coldly, stopping him short, "is in the paper?"

There was another furtive exchange of looks. Finally, Jacqueline handed the _Daily Prophet _to him. He skimmed Rita Skeeter's story, which, instead of being an article on the Triwizard Tournament, was nothing more than a sappy biography of Harry Potter's life and an exaggerated version of the broom-cupboard interview… and others, it seemed.

"_Colin Creevey says that Harry is rarely seen out of the company of one Hermione Granger, a stunningly pretty Muggle-born girl," _Draco read aloud. He glanced at his schoolmates in amusement. Was this what they thought would upset him?

But they only looked back at him with doleful expressions. He frowned and continued scanning the page.

_This reporter's attempts to form a more comprehensive account were hindered by the presence of two amateur student journalists from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, namely Sabine Galerd, whose cheekiness might even be considered charming if she were older and more polished…_

Draco raised an eyebrow at Sabine, tempted to tease her about this barely concealed slander and the butchering of her family name, but her mouth was set in a hard line that made him think twice. He returned his attention to the article.

… _and Draco Malfoy, son of formerly accused Death Eater Lucius Malfoy, who was cleared of all charges after the war._

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	7. The Ghosts You Chase

**Notes:** As of this update, _A Primer for the Small Weird Loves_ has reached 101 follows! I am so grateful and overwhelmed, and I tried my best to make sure this latest chapter doesn't disappoint. Please let me know what you think! Corrections, suggestions, and constructive criticism are very welcome. Oh, and we have a cover now! It's kind of lame, but, as I don't have Photoshop on my current laptop, I had to do what I could with BeFunky. I would like to thank R-E-B-E-C and kitkatritrat for adding this fic to their communities, I'm honored! kitkatritrat mentioned that Draco should be a little meaner, and I assure you that the Malfoy traits will definitely be manifesting themselves as the plot progresses. And special mention goes to AnneNevilleReviews for her detailed and thoughtful comments, and, of course, many, MANY thanks go to each and every one of you for the reviews, follows, and favorites. Happy New Year, everyone! May 2013 be full of stories for us all.

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

**The Ghosts You Chase**

* * *

_Death Eater. _Those two words grew in Draco's mind until they filled the world, black letters burning on white paper with their chilling gravity, turning upside down everything he'd ever known. He gave the copy of the _Daily Prophet _back to Jacqueline, who mercifully took it from him before it could slide from his numb fingers.

"Draco-" Cerise began, but he held up a hand, cutting her off.

"If you're going to tell me this doesn't have to mean anything, that it doesn't matter, save it, please," he said. The distant part of him that was looking at this scene was surprised by how normal his voice sounded. "The fact that you called me _Draco_ instead of _Malfoy _is enough. My last name is a curse."

His schoolmates didn't contradict him. They didn't say anything. What _could _you say at a time like this? His gaze fell on Fleur, as most people's gazes tended to do, and she looked back at him unblinkingly, eyes like the Atlantic, hair like silver ink, the Veela in the morning light, the face of someone who would have been hunted down and killed under Voldemort's regime.

Draco suddenly felt trapped in the interior of the carriage, the ethereal quality of its gilded furnishings and subdued pastel hues mocking his predicament. He needed air.

He nodded politely at his schoolmates and then stepped outside. He didn't really know where he was going; he was a stranger watching his own self walk. His footsteps took him to the shores of the great lake, which rippled cool and clear under the sun. The wind blew in from the Highlands, sheathing him in a veil of ice as it gusted through his thin robes, but, for once, he didn't shiver, even though it seemed he was always shivering in this harsh and unforgiving place. He couldn't feel anything except the hollowness in the pit of his stomach.

He wished he could reassure himself with Rita Skeeter's reputation as a sensationalist reporter in the habit of obscuring the truth, but it all made sense in a twisted kind of way. It explained why his mother had fled. Why the older people here at Hogwarts looked at him so strangely- it wasn't just the striking resemblance to Lucius Malfoy, it was everything that Lucius Malfoy represented.

_His father was a murderer. _Draco's ears rang as if that simple fact had been screamed in his face. He was the son of a Death Eater. His father had served the Dark Lord.

The events of the war had barely touched France, but they had permeated the country's socio-cultural consciousness. In _L'histoire de la magie, _Draco had listened along with his classmates in shock as Professor Levett described the wide-scale slaughter of Muggles and Muggle-borns, and in Draco's second year, a gang of older students had been expelled for dressing up as Death Eaters on Halloween. The pure-blood circles he and his mother belonged to had their militants, but even these were careful to never publicly sympathize with Voldemort. The horror was too great. Apart from that, the war had been nothing but a footnote, relegated to a couple of lessons in school and an almost-taboo subject at home.

But now it felt very real to Draco. His father was a murderer.

"I'm sorry."

He didn't turn around. All it would take was the sight of her, brown hair wild in the wind and tumbling about her delicate face, the _Daily Prophet _probably clutched in her small hands, for reality to come crashing down, for him to come back to himself and break.

"Why do you apologize?" he asked stiffly. _My father killed people like you._

"Perhaps that was the wrong word," Hermione said in a rush. "What I meant was… I commiserate. _Je compatis."_

The significance of that verb wasn't lost on Draco. It went beyond _Désolé_ or _Je m'excuse._ It meant _I feel your sorrow. _It meant _I am sad that you are sad._

"Did I pronounce that right?" she asked worriedly. "I've always been terrible at French- I mean, I can read it, a bit, but I never really speak it, which should be obvious-"

He almost laughed. How like her, to stress about her accent at a time like this, this bookish, high-strung, Muggle-born girl with her myriad quirks, this wonderful _person-_

_My father killed people like you._

Out loud, he said, "You knew. Even before."

"Yes," she replied. "But it doesn't have to matter, Draco-"

"Please don't." The words weren't forceful, but she stopped talking as if he'd shouted them. He didn't say anything else, and the silence that fell was broken only by the wind rustling through the trees and the waves splashing against the rocks.

As Draco stared out across the lake, gentle hands came up from behind him, draping something warm and woolly over his shoulders, looping it around his neck. He glanced down to see a scarf in Gryffindor colors, providing relief from the cold he hadn't even realized he'd gone back to feeling until some of it had melted away.

He wanted to thank her. He wanted to turn around. He wanted to see her face. But he was fourteen years old and far from home, and she would have died at his father's hands if she'd lived during the seventies, so he remained quiet and still, eyes full of sky and water, until she walked away.

* * *

"I don't think I've ever been here before," Lavender declared, examining her surroundings with keen interest.

Hermione was baffled. "What, _never?"_

"She's exaggerating," said Parvati. "At least, I hope she is."

The three girls were in the library. Actually, only Hermione had felt the need to go to the library on a weekend, but upon seeing her stricken expression when she'd returned from the lake, her roommates had insisted on keeping her company. She had intended to bury herself in schoolwork in order to forget the defeated hunch of Draco's shoulders that made him seem smaller somehow and the painful coolness in his voice that barely restrained the bitterness threatening to crack through, but, now, looking at Lavender's and Parvati's earnest faces across the table, she realized she wasn't going to get anything done today.

"Was it so terribly awful, Hermione?" asked Lavender. "Did you have a huge row?"

Hermione shook her head. "Not particularly. He didn't say much. I think he's mad at me for not telling him, to be honest."

"What?" Parvati's brow creased. "You mean he didn't _know? _How is that even possible?"

Hermione bit her lip, chiding herself for her loose tongue. She hadn't told anyone about Draco being raised alone by his mother; while he hadn't specified that it was a secret, she didn't think it was the sort of thing she should go spreading around. He'd admitted it to her quickly enough, but that had been a desperate act to explain himself, and he'd looked as if he was giving up something that was his and his alone.

"Yes, he didn't know," she said. "But I don't want to betray his confidence, so I can't tell you how."

Lavender and Parvati traded bewildered glances, as if Hermione had gone off-script.

"Hermione, this is girl time," Lavender patiently explained. "We're supposed to tell one another everything."

"It's not mine to share," Hermione insisted.

"Well, I suppose we can let that go," said Parvati with great reluctance. "We _are _in a library- as far as girl times are concerned, this one's already highly irregular, after all."

Hermione decided to keep quiet. Before this year, she'd spent most of her time with Harry and Ron, but even she was aware on some instinctive level that there was a certain kind of logic at play here, forces that were older than Hogwarts itself. The ways of women. The rituals of teenage girls.

"I don't think he's mad at you, exactly," Lavender mused. "He's probably mad because he didn't know, in general, and he might also be feeling a little bit guilty."

"_Guilty?" _Hermione repeated, incredulous. "Why on earth-?"

"Because his dad was a Death Eater and you're Muggle-born," said Parvati. "Bit irrational, yeah, but, look, Hermione, you weren't born into the wizarding world, so you have no idea… There's loads of stuff left over from the war. Emotional baggage, y'know? People like me, Lavender, and Draco- we've been hearing about Harry and You-Know-Who since we were kids. And when you're a kid, all of that is sort of… magnified. So it's probably guilt by association, and he took it out on you."

"Yeah," Lavender chimed in, "you'd be surprised how often boys act out when they're feeling guilty. Not much good at handling emotions, them."

"I get it," said Hermione, surprised that she actually _did. _She'd never pegged her giggly, gossipy roommates as intellectual, but she was now realizing that, when it came to human nature, they had her beat. "So I just have to give him time to work through his issues. Thank you. Really."

The two other girls exchanged one of their secretive looks. Finally, Lavender turned to Hermione with a smile that was almost shy. "This is nice that we're doing this," she said. "Parvati and I, we've always wanted to be better friends with you."

"We just didn't know how to approach you and whatnot," said Parvati. "Smart people give Lavender the willies."

Lavender nodded fervently. "No offense."

"None taken," said Hermione with a grin.

* * *

In the days that followed, Draco's schoolmates skittered around him like they were treading on eggshells. He was no longer the butt of little-fourth-year jokes; he wasn't sure if this was because they pitied or feared him for being the child of a Death Eater, and he honestly didn't know which was worse. He no longer went inside the castle, keeping mostly to the carriage and the grounds- aside from not wanting to see Hermione, he didn't think he'd ever be able to look Harry Potter in the eye again. He wrote drafts of his Triwizard article and blazed through schoolwork like a man possessed as Sabine dutifully brought back sandwiches from the Great Hall after meal times. She never mentioned Rita Skeeter's piece, but he did catch her throwing several copies of that issue of the _Daily Prophet _into the fire.

On Wednesday night, there was a knock on the carriage door.

Draco, Fleur, and Cerise were the only ones in the living room. Draco was reading his Potions textbook while the two girls were embroiled in an intense game of wizard chess. Upon hearing the knock, Fleur and Cerise turned to him expectantly before remembering that they were supposed to be nice to him. Cerise leapt to her feet, but Draco was already walking to the door.

"Who could that be, at this hour?" Fleur wondered aloud.

It was Albus Dumbledore.

"Mister Malfoy!" he said, blue eyes bright on his wrinkled face. "Just the person I wanted to see. I believe there are some things you and I need to discuss."

* * *

Draco followed Dumbledore into his office, a circular room full of delicate-looking silver instruments that whirred and puffed smoke into the air, the walls lined with the currently sleeping portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses. The cheerful lighting was a relief after the dark passages of a post-curfew Hogwarts.

"How may I be of assistance, sir?" Draco asked politely.

Dumbledore chuckled. "Always so formal, the Malfoys. You do look extraordinarily like your father, you know- when he was your age. This foggy old brain of mine thought you were Lucius for a second, before you started speaking in that French accent. Oh, yes…" He nodded. "I knew Lucius. And Narcissa. They were my students, as a matter of fact."

Draco's lips tilted in a slight, bemused frown. "This is a social call, sir?"

"Suspicion and impatience, now _those _are Black traits entirely," Dumbledore remarked. "However, yes, certainly, let us get down to business- I'd ask you to sit, Draco, but we would only be on our feet again in a few moments, as you shall see- Would you like a lemon drop?"

Draco was beginning to panic now. What the hell was a lemon drop? Was the old man trying to poison him? "No, thank you."

"Very well." Dumbledore strode over to a black cabinet and pulled it open. Inside was a stone basin full of swirling silvery light. "Do you know what this is, my boy?"

Draco studied the runes carved around the edge of the basin. "A Pensieve," he answered. "For memories."

"Quite so. Now, Draco, I understand that Rita Skeeter has recently published some distressing information- information that, if I am correct in my surmise, you were previously unaware of and must have come as a terrible shock."

Draco shrugged. Dumbledore continued peering at him over his half-moon spectacles, until he finally said in a cool tone, "I didn't know, if that's what you mean."

"That is indeed what I meant," Dumbledore gravely agreed. "It would be in Narcissa's nature not to tell you about the war, but it is in distancing ourselves from something that we forget why we wanted to so badly. I believe that she permitted you to visit Great Britain because she, with due cause, believed that it was well and truly over... Alas, ghosts take longer to die." He clasped his hands together. "I would like to show you something, Draco. I would like you to understand why your mother left. That is, if you're ready."

The boy nodded, wary but eager.

Dumbledore gestured to the Pensieve. "If you please."

Draco stepped forward and lowered his head into the basin. The moment his nose touched the pool of silver light, he found himself lurching forward, pitched headfirst into Dumbledore's memories, falling into a whirlpool of darkness-

And then his feet hit the floor. He was in a shabby little room with a threadbare carpet and moth-eaten drapes. An inn of some sort, then. Dumbledore was standing at the windows, looking out at a rain-streaked night. Draco suppressed the urge to clear his throat, to make his presence known. This was a memory; the professor would neither see him nor hear him.

The door creaked open. A hooded figure entered, dressed in black. There was something familiar about the figure's gait, the way it carried itself, the way it moved. Once the new arrival had closed the door, Dumbledore said, "As per our agreement, there is no member of the Order to be found within a mile of this place. However, I have taken the liberty of securing the perimeter with an Anti-Disapparition Jinx, and it is only fair to warn you that any aggressive move you make may well be your last. I advise you not to abuse my trust."

Draco was shocked by how different the man's voice sounded- commanding, hard as steel, without a trace of kindness or joviality. This was the voice of someone in the thick of war.

"Now," continued Dumbledore, turning around, "to whom do I owe the pleasure?"

The figure removed its hood and stepped into the light cast by the single wax candle on the bedside table. Long white-blonde hair shone like a firebrand in the gloom. Draco's eyes widened.

For a split second, so did Dumbledore's. "You made the Unbreakable Vow," he said meditatively. "Sirius would not have agreed to arrange this meeting otherwise."

The woman nodded. She was paler than Draco had ever seen her before. Her ice-blue eyes shone feverishly as she laid a trembling hand on the curve of her stomach. Draco stared at the bump, doing calculations in his head. If that was him, then surely this was 1980.

"I come on behalf of my child," said Narcissa Malfoy in a hoarse whisper. "Two days ago, Rosier and Wilkes were killed by Aurors. The Dark Lord was… livid…"

"Indeed," Dumbledore replied coldly. "That small Muggle village certainly felt the effects of his rage. There were no survivors."

Narcissa choked back a dry, guttural sob. Dumbledore stared at her.

"You were there," he breathed.

"The Dark Lord insisted!" she cried. "Lucius was with Rosier and Wilkes that day. It was his- our- punishment! I had to watch-!"

"Punishment?" repeated Dumbledore. There was no mercy in his tone. "The wife of a Death Eater considers watching the slaughter of Muggles a punishment?"

"_I saw my husband covered in the blood of children!" _Narcissa hissed, her shoulders shaking. "I saw him _laugh_ when the frenzy took hold!"

"Were I a cruel man, Narcissa," Dumbledore said savagely, "I would tell you that _that _is the world you are fighting for. Did you think it would be pleasant? Did you think Lucius and his ilk were dispatching your so-called _inferiors _nice and easy? A muttered incantation, a flash of green light? _No. _People are _butchered. _They are raped and they are tortured until they bleed out because your master refuses to grant them the quick dignity of a wizard's death! What you saw was merely a small taste, I assure you! Your husband, your sister, your friends- they do that _every _day-"

Narcissa screamed, clapping her hands over her ears. Her knees buckled and she slumped to the floor. Forgetting himself, Draco rushed to catch her, but she slipped through his arms, of course, and he could do nothing but glare at Dumbledore, feeling a rush of pure, absolute hatred-

"Perhaps I am a cruel man, at that." Dumbledore sighed, looking weary. He gently helped Narcissa to her feet. "I apologize. Would you like to sit down? I would not wish any harm on your unborn child."

"I almost miscarried," said Narcissa. Her cheeks were wet with tears. "I fainted while the- while _it _was going on. They had to Apparate me to the midwife- nearly got splinched- I almost lost the baby-"

Dumbledore's hands clamped around her upper arms, supporting her as she swayed. "What do you want, Narcissa?" he asked. "Why are you here?"

"I want to leave," she said without hesitation. "I want to be as far away from here as possible. I want my child to be safe."

"Do you have any idea where you might go?"

"I thought… France. Possibly Cherbourg? I know the language and the area well enough. I could stay there until… until all this is over…" Narcissa swallowed. "But they will look for me. Lucius will know I've gone. I won't be able to make it out of England before they find me. I need your help, Dumbledore."

He gingerly let go of her and resumed his post at the windows, again turning his back to the room. For a few moments there was only the sound of rain tapping a lazy rhythm on the glass and the sputter of the blazing candlewick. Draco's gaze drifted once more to his mother. He'd never before seen her so fragile, so unhinged.

"The rest of Europe is on high alert. The French wizarding government has cast the barriers," Dumbledore said at last. "No one can enter from the United Kingdom through magical means; you will need to travel the Muggle way. Since Cherbourg is in the north, the English Channel is your best bet. Falsified travel papers can be arranged, an escort can be provided… But I must confess this does not sit well with me, aiding the wife of a Death Eater in her escape. And not just any Death Eater- Lucius Malfoy himself."

"Dumbledore, please," Narcissa whispered, the pain and despair on her face too achingly brilliant that Draco almost looked away. "The midwife told me it's a boy. I'm having a _son. _Please."

"A son..." Dumbledore sounded distant, but Draco could see the man's reflection in the dark glass, could see the way those blue eyes softened. "Very well. For your sake, Narcissa, and for the future of the life you carry, I will help you."

And then it was over. Draco felt himself rising into the air, the humble room slowly dissolving, and then he was back in Dumbledore's office. Disoriented, he blinked, and was horrified to feel the warm wetness of a teardrop untangle itself from his lashes and slide down his cheek.

"We live at the family chateau, along the Loire," he said, more to himself than to Dumbledore. "Father sends us money…"

"I can only assume that your parents somehow got in touch after the war," Dumbledore told him softly. "After that night, I neither saw nor spoke directly to Narcissa ever again."

"Why?" Draco asked. "Why would he help-?"

"The human heart is a strange and wondrous thing, is it not? Even when evil triumphs, still the heart is greater," said Dumbledore. "Lucius loved your mother since their time at Hogwarts. It was a love warped by his desire for power and his allegiance to Voldemort, but it was love, nonetheless."

"What good is the love of a Death Eater?" Draco muttered bitterly. "What good am I?"

"Do you not understand why I showed you the memory?" said Dumbledore. "You are more Narcissa's son than Lucius'. Yes, your father's blood runs in your veins, but you have your mother's strength. You have her grace." He smiled; it was a smile tinged with sadness, but still warm and genuine. "My dear boy, I have never regretted helping Narcissa because it was the right thing to do, but meeting you, seeing you right now, in front of me, I stand ever more firmly behind my actions. She raised you well. She raised a fine young man."

Draco didn't say anything. He feared that if he opened his mouth it would release the dam of emotions knotting in his throat. He hadn't cried in front of anyone since he was a child, and he'd be damned if he was going to start now.

Dumbledore took pity on him. "It is time for bed, I think. Sleep on it, won't you, Draco? The morning will be brighter. Shall I escort you back to the carriage?"

"No," Draco managed, finding his voice at last. "I know the way. Thank you, sir."

But the mention of the word _escort _had brought a niggling question to the surface of his mind. Before he left the office, he stopped, one hand on the doorknob, turning back to the Headmaster. "If I may ask one more thing-?"

"Yes?" said Dumbledore encouragingly.

"Who was it? Who accompanied Mother when she fled?"

It had been the wrong thing to ask. Dumbledore's expression clouded over and, for a while, he looked as if he was on the verge of tears himself. "I do not think you would know them," he replied. "It would be presumptuous of me to expect you to have memorized another country's heroes."

Draco thought back to the couple of history classes that had dealt with the First Wizarding War of Great Britain, the lists of names and achievements too long to memorize, the events that had seemed so far away from everything he'd ever known. "I'd like to know, anyway."

"I suppose you should," said Dumbledore. "The Aurors that brought your mother to the harbor and made sure she got on the boat safely were a married couple. Alice and Frank Longbottom. They were two of my best, my brightest. Remember their names."

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	8. The Ghosts You Never Catch

**Notes: **I've started uploading this story to Hawthorn and Vine, for anyone who might prefer reading it there in the future. My pen name at that site is still unicornesque. Thanks once again for the reviews, follows, and favorites! I hope you guys like this chapter, and I highly encourage you to hit that review button. Corrections, suggestions, and constructive criticism are very welcome. This installment deals mainly with wrapping up the fallout from the previous two, but the next update will definitely be more action-filled.

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

**The Ghosts You Never Catch**

* * *

To Draco's surprise, Fleur was waiting for him in the living room when he returned to the carriage. He was still a bit unsteady on his feet after the painful revelation he'd witnessed, but he managed to calmly raise an eyebrow at her even as he realized with cold certainty that if she interrogated him about his meeting with Dumbledore, or tried to engage him in inane pleasantries, or played another one of her mind games, he'd end up yelling at her.

He _wanted _to yell. It hit him like a physical blow, how badly he wanted it. He wanted to be furious. He clenched his fists and silently dared her to give him a reason.

"When you look at me," she said in a tone of voice so casual it threw him off, "what do you see first? The person or the Veela?"

"The Veela," he snapped. "You hardly try to be anything else."

He'd meant to provoke her, but instead she nodded with satisfaction. "Exactly. I embraced the blood. I made it matter. But you don't have to."

Draco scoffed. "I, of all people, know how important blood is."

"You don't _get _it," said Fleur, her porcelain features sulky in the shifting firelight. "I was 'beautiful' and 'otherworldly' from the moment I was born. When I was a child, I danced in the Black Forest and I learned my grandmother's songs. If I ever did have a choice, I lost sight of it a long time ago. You, on the other hand… Before you came here, you weren't the son of a Death Eater. You've had fourteen years of your life not being one."

"I _am _one," he hissed.

She shrugged. "Only if you let the sins of your father define who you are."

"How can I not? The war-" He stopped short, because he truly had no idea what to say next. What about the war? The rise and downfall of Voldemort was a chapter in a history book. It was one essay on a final exam, it was a little announcement in the foreign affairs section about the anniversary celebrations in Great Britain every Halloween. It was the look that sometimes stole over Narcissa Malfoy's face.

Fleur shook her head, a wry and tiny smile blossoming around the corners of her mouth. The fire burned low in the hearth and in its golden glow she appeared very young indeed, although she was already seventeen. "Little fourth year," she said, not unkindly, but the thing about Fleur Delacour was that she sometimes had no idea how cruel she could be, "what do you and I know about the war?"

* * *

Sabine's expression was apprehensive when she saw Draco step out of the carriage the next morning, but it soon cleared when he told her he was going up to the castle.

"Welcome back," she said. "Off to see Hermione?"

He hesitated. He wasn't ready to face her, not yet. "I'm going to the library, actually."

"Whatever for?"

"There are some things I need to know." He fiddled with the strap of his book-bag, remembering how she'd spent these past few days bringing him sandwiches and burning every copy of the _Daily Prophet _she could find. "Listen, Gaillard, I never said-"

"Oh, no, Malfoy, that's okay." She looked faintly alarmed. "You and I, we don't do that."

He smirked. "What's the matter? Scared of a little emotional catharsis?"

"Don't make me laugh." She rolled her eyes. "You're the one who considers displays of sentiment appallingly middle-class. I'm just saving us both from your eventual freak-out."

"I won't freak out because I thanked you for doing something nice," he said, affronted.

"You will." She patted his arm fondly. "One of these days, you're going to let someone in. But I think you and I already know it won't be me."

* * *

Hermione was becoming very annoyed with Viktor Krum's fan club. Their giggles shattered her concentration like stones breaking through water. What did he keep doing in the library, anyway? All the other Quidditch players she knew avoided this place like the plague.

One of the girls said something in an excited whisper, which set her friends off again. Wild hyenas, the lot of them. Gritting her teeth, Hermione slammed her book shut and stood up, the chair legs scraping against the floor in what she hoped was a pointed manner. She headed in the direction of the quieter, more secluded alcoves, resisting the urge to glare at Krum as she passed by his table. If she couldn't finish her Charms essay before her next class, someone was going to pay.

Krum glanced at her and ducked his head. Odd.

Hermione turned the corner and stopped short. Draco was standing by the windows, hands braced on the edge of the table, which was covered in newspapers. His blond head was bent over them with furious intensity; he had yet to notice her appearance.

She hadn't seen him since Saturday. Lavender and Parvati had counseled her to give him time, and she was about to do just that and move on to the next alcove, but right at that moment he looked up and their gazes met. The stricken expression on his face that he was now trying desperately to hide made her decision for her.

"What are you looking for?" she asked.

"I… I needed to know…" He trailed off, gesturing helplessly at the slew of newspapers.

They were all backdated issues of the _Daily Prophet _and other smaller publications. The earlier headlines screamed the last stand of Fabian and Gideon Prewett, the slaughter of the McKinnon family, the death of Dorcas Meadowes at the hands of Lord Voldemort, the disappearance of Caradoc Dearborn, the fatal mutilation of Benjy Fenwick, and the failed Invasion of Britain by the giants. Later stories detailed the trials; the issue spread out nearest to Draco recounted the hearing of Barty Crouch, Jr. and the Lestranges, how they were sentenced to Azkaban for the torture of Alice and Frank Longbottom.

Hermione was silent. Draco didn't seem much in the mood to talk, either. The war rained down all around them, hundreds of ghosts springing to life in the daylight.

Finally, Draco sat down, his shoulders heavy with the weight of the past. "I was looking for traces of my father." His voice was cool, but hoarse. Broken. "I wanted to understand… But now I understand even less." He pulled out a thick, hardbound book from under the pile of newspapers and showed it to Hermione. It was the _Magical Peerage, _already opened to the Black family tree. "Look here. My mother's cousins, Sirius and Regulus Black. My mother's sister… my aunt… Bellatrix Lestrange. Death Eaters, all of them."

There was nothing Hermione wanted more in the world than to tell Draco the truth about Sirius, to offer him refuge, however small, from the waves of his grief. But she doubted he would even hear or believe her. He was staring into space, his gray eyes vacant.

"You should leave," Draco muttered. "I am descended from murderers. It is- I… I am unseemly in your presence."

It was the way his brow furrowed as he sought for the correct words in English, the way his tongue tripped over itself to figure that last sentence out. It made Hermione suddenly, blazingly furious.

Without really thinking about what she was doing, she raised her wand. Newspapers went flying off the table as if a huge, invisible hand had swept them aside. The _Peerage _bounced off the windowpanes and slumped to the floor with a resounding thud.

Draco's elegant jaw dropped open. Snapped out of his daze, he blinked at her in confusion as newspapers fluttered to his feet.

"That's what I think about this whole affair!" Hermione cried. "It's useless, it doesn't mean a thing!" She wrung her hands in frustration, because it _did, _she knew that it did, even it shouldhave been over. Sirius was in hiding and the Slytherins called her a Mudblood and Harry's scar would never go away. "You-Know-Who and your father and your aunt, they can all _sod _themselves!" Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes because this stuffy, courteous, beautiful, absolutely _brilliant_ boy should never have to be ashamed of himself, and she would see Lucius Malfoy in hell before she let his legacy fuck with his son's mind even more than it already had. "You deserve better, Draco! You deserve-"

She didn't know what she was going to say next, but it hardly mattered. Drawn by the ruckus, Madam Pince scurried over to them, surveyed the mess, and promptly assigned Hermione two hours' worth of detention.

* * *

"Are you sure you won't get into trouble?" she asked him suspiciously as she pored over an Ancient Egyptian manuscript that the librarian was making her translate. "It _is _after hours."

Draco shrugged. When supper was over and his schoolmates started trickling out the doors, he'd stayed behind to keep Hermione company during her detention. He'd requested Bastien and Sabine to cover for him; between the two of them, he was reasonably confident they'd figure something out. "I don't mind."

"I don't know what came over me," Hermione muttered, scribbling notes on a roll of parchment. "I'm usually very… conscientious."

"You were angry," said Draco. "At me, I suppose."

"_For _you," she corrected him. Her tone was firm, but she ducked her head slightly as if she were embarrassed.

Part of him still wasn't used to this girl, how easily she could admit things like that with no pretenses whatsoever. It struck him as brave. _She _struck him as brave. He still couldn't get the image of her out of his head, all heaving chest and furious eyes, grainy newspapers drifting to the floor like dirty snow.

The library was quiet and dark, with only the lamp at their table burning low. He sat a respectable distance from her as her quill scratched on the parchment and she murmured the names of runes under her breath. At first, he'd tried to help her with the translation, but she'd waspishly insisted on doing all of it herself, because "that's the _point, _Draco. _Honestly."_

She flipped to the next page of the manuscript. "Sirius Black wasn't a Death Eater," she said, her hand stilling over the parchment. "He was framed. Don't ask me how I know, but that's the truth. He was James Potter's best friend and he would never have betrayed him."

"_You made the Unbreakable Vow," _Dumbledore had said to Narcissa within the depths of the Pensieve. _"Sirius would not have agreed to arrange this meeting otherwise."_

Draco cleared his throat. "Thank you for telling me that."

"You're welcome." She went back to writing.

"Why don't you care?" he asked her softly, throwing back the question she'd asked him that night on the seventh floor.

The strokes of her quill became more forceful. "You are not your father," she replied, and the fierce protectiveness in her voice touched off chords hidden deep within him. "You shouldn't have to carry the burden of someone else's life."

"Ghosts take longer to die," he whispered.

"They're not _your _ghosts," she said, her thin fingers curved around _bnw, _the symbol for the phoenix. "The way I see it, they can haunt you, or you can live."

"It's not that simple," he protested.

"Nothing ever is," she agreed. "So, what's it going to be?"

He studied her quietly. The lamplight cast a honeyed gloss on her wavy brown hair, splintering off her thick eyelashes, dipping the curve of her chin in shadow. She still wasn't looking at him, completely engrossed in her work, but her head was tilted in his direction. She was aware of his presence, comfortable in it, and it occurred to Draco that this could be the beginning of something great.

Maybe it wasn't about being brave. Maybe you just had to say it.

"I chose to come here because I like writing better than playing Quidditch," he told her at last, giving what he once could not, that time at the lake. "The act of putting my own words on parchment, it is a different kind of flying. It… I have wings, even on the ground."

And he waited, for her to scoff at his foolishness and his stilted English, for her to ridicule the one thing that nobody had been able to understand.

Instead, she murmured, _"Nefer."_

"What?"

"It's one of the runes I just copied down. It means _the most beautiful." _She glanced at him then. Her eyes were smiling. "Rather fitting, I should think."

"It is for you," he said quickly before his common sense could get the better of him. "It's meant for you."

She stopped translating long enough to push her chair closer to his. He propped one elbow on the surface of the table and tentatively leaned into her nearness, stopping when her hair was a scant few inches away from his nose. Scotland's unwelcoming cold dissipated in the warmth radiating from her slim form as he breathed in the scent of brown sugar and vanilla. She didn't say anything and neither did he. She wrote and he watched her write, and in that dark little world of ink and parchment and silence, the war and its phantoms faded away.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	9. Aloft on the Wind

**Notes: **You guys, I realized that Draco could not have possibly been born in Nantes if Narcissa fled to Cherbourg and stayed there until the end of the war. I've made the necessary corrections in Chapter 2. Apologies for the brain fart! Also, for writers interested in getting detailed and constructive feedback on their work to help them improve, you may want to check out AnneNevilleReviews' new C2 called McGonagall's Red Pen. Anyway, this chapter was really fun to write because DRAGONS. Corrections, suggestions, and constructive criticism are very welcome. Thank you as always for the reviews, follows, and favorites. I'm so happy the tweaks in Draco's characterization are being well-received, but the snark we all know and love will definitely be more blatant in future installments, particularly in his dealings with Ron... I don't think those two will ever actually like each other, no matter what universe they're in. And to mh21, who expressed hope that this story will continue until the second war, don't worry! I have a couple more sequels planned out after this fic.

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

**Aloft on the Wind**

* * *

Draco, Sabine, and a few of the eighth-year students sat in the shade of the trees, watching the sevenths ace their _Défense _lesson with an intensity so determined and precise that it was quite unnerving to behold.

"Keeners, the lot of them," snorted Bastien, his half-completed _Astronomie _chart lying forgotten on the grass. "Their year would be a lot more tolerable if they removed the collective stick lodged up their collective arse."

"They can act like hotshots all they want," Adrien said airily. "I'm sure none of them has ever managed to make it rain snakes before."

Sumaya rolled her eyes. "You weren't too thrilled about it, if I recall correctly." She pantomimed the way Adrien had flailed and cringed as he tried to shake the ball pythons off, mouth open in comical fear.

"Yes, but now I recognize it for the stunning bit of magic that it was," Adrien retorted with a scowl. "Absolutely masterful, Sumaya. Really."

The argument was disrupted when Fleur emerged from the carriage. She had been excused from today's lessons so she could prepare for the First Task, which was going to be held tomorrow. She sat down on the carriage steps and glumly observed her classmates, chin propped in one hand.

"Fleur's looking a bit peaky this morning, isn't she?" Sabine observed.

Draco squinted at their Champion, studying her across the distance. She did seem paler than usual. Her blue eyes sparkled feverishly but the burnished glow that always surrounded her had faded.

"She's nervous. It's understandable," said Sumaya. "Or she could be coming down with something."

Brys coughed, and it sounded suspiciously like the words "Bird flu."

"You terrible old bastard!" guffawed Adrien. "It might be chicken pox!"

Sabine and Sumaya clapped their palms over their mouths to stifle their horrified giggles. Draco himself had to fight down a snicker. He couldn't laugh, not after what Fleur had told him.

"_L-l-la v-v-varicelle," _Brys repeated, wheezing so hard with mirth that the words were barely decipherable. "I think I'm going to pop an artery-"

Bastien frowned. "Quit it, Desrosiers."

"Oh, come on, Auclair. You broke up with her ages ago. You're allowed to laugh about the fact that she's part-fowl." Brys tilted his head, leering at Bastien. "So, tell me, because I've often wondered- does Fleur squawk when-"

He never got any farther than that, because Bastien punched him in the face.

* * *

"I thought you were over her," said Jacqueline.

She hadn't been sitting with them under the trees, but as soon as Brys and Bastien came to blows, she'd marched over and single-handedly ended the fight with two Full Body-Bind Curses. The enraged Madame Maxime had ordered the limb-locked boys hauled to their respective rooms, and now Draco was sitting at his desk while Bastien, sporting a blackened eye, experimentally rotated his newly de-spelled left shoulder under the weight of Jacqueline's penetrating stare.

"You're getting good at this, Sarkozy," he mused.

"Don't change the subject."

Bastien huffed. "What do you want me to say?"

"I _want _you to explain why I had to curse my associate editor to stop him from beating Desrosiers into a bloody pulp."

"Easy enough," Bastien shot back. "Desrosiers is a moron. There."

Jacqueline sighed. "You can't keep doing this, you know. You can't keep letting Fleur screw with your head. It's downright unhealthy-"

"Ahem," said Bastien, raising an eyebrow in Draco's direction. "We shouldn't scar the child with accounts of my psychological shortcomings. His mother will never let mine hear the end of it."

Jacqueline fished out a thick envelope from her book-bag and tossed it to Draco. "Here, Malfoy. The junior staff Owled in their articles for next week's publication. Do a little proofreading, won't you? And, while you're at it, write a note to Yvon telling him to take it easy on the design. He's a sixteen-year-old layout artist, not Frida Kahlo."

"Who?" Bastien and Draco asked.

"Never mind, pure-bloods," snapped Jacqueline in disgust. "Well, Malfoy, what are you waiting for? Go on. Get out of here and do your work."

"Jacqueline," Draco said cautiously, "you _are _in my room…"

The look she gave him was enough to make him start backing away. He went out, closing the door behind him, but before it fully swung shut he heard Bastien tell Jacqueline, "It still hurts. I don't know why, but it does."

Draco had a feeling the older boy wasn't talking about his bruises. Not the ones that you could see, anyway.

* * *

"I think I'm going to be sick," Hermione muttered as she let the crowd of Gryffindors sweep her towards the dragons' enclosure.

"Everything will be fine," said Parvati in a soothing tone. "It's just a school contest. Harry won't be facing anything too dangerous."

Hermione shuddered. Ignorance truly _was _bliss.

The Gryffindors encountered a group of Beauxbatons delegates along the path, all of them looking as sullen as ever, bundled up in their scarves and shawls. This time, though, Hermione couldn't blame them. November had tightened its ice-cold grip on Scotland. Breathing in the outside air was like getting stabbed in the chest with a frozen knife.

Adrien smiled when he saw Hermione and gallantly stepped aside to let her and the other Gryffindors pass. As they walked on ahead, Parvati fanned herself and Lavender giggled. Hermione glanced back at Adrien, taking note of his sharp cheekbones and curly black hair. She'd previously only known him as the boy who'd misfired the Stunning Spell and who was afraid of snakes. Now she added "Parvati's one true love" to the list of identifiers.

"All right, Hermione?" Neville Longbottom asked, falling into step beside her.

"Fine, thanks," Hermione replied. "Bit nervous."

Neville grinned. "At least you're not the one competing!"

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione caught the sunlight glinting off a familiar white-blond head. "I'd probably just end up throwing a book at it," she reflected distractedly, slowing her pace.

"At what?" Neville asked, confused.

Bollocks! She'd almost let slip the fact that she knew about the dragons. Draco Malfoy was not good for her presence of mind _at all._

"Was I talking about books again?" Hermione gave a forced laugh. "Oh, Neville, you know me, always- hi!" She all but bleated that last word into Draco's face as he caught up with them on the path.

"Good afternoon," said Draco. He was wearing her Gryffindor scarf, his haughty poise offsetting the way the crimson and gold stripes clashed with his pale blue robes.

"Hi," she said. Again.

His brow furrowed when he noticed her gaze lingering on the scarf. "I apologize," he said hastily. "You want this back."

His hands flew up to his neck to remove the item in question, but Hermione stopped him with a shake of her head. "Keep it. I like you better when you're not a human icicle," she joked.

Neville's cheerful, good-natured expression had faded somewhat and he started to edge away. After what happened to his parents, he had every reason to be wary of anything remotely connected to Death Eaters, but Draco had already registered his presence and was on the verge of sticking out his hand, and it was actually kind of heartbreaking, so Hermione gripped Neville's arm, consumed by a fierce and sudden need to make him become aware of the fact that Draco was nothing at all like Lucius.

"Draco, this is my friend, Neville," Hermione announced. "Neville Longbottom."

Draco's face did not change. There was no spark of recognition in his silver-stained eyes. But he looked at the Gryffindor scarf the other boy was wearing and quietly said, "Courage is in the blood."

Neville's brows shot up in surprise. And Hermione was not the most sentimental of girls, but as the two boys tentatively shook hands, she couldn't help but feel that this moment was the ending no one had bargained on all those years ago, that this was a little part of history, finally coming to a close.

* * *

Dragons were shocking, as Hermione soon found out. You could be well-forewarned, you could read up all you want, but you could never, _ever _be prepared for the real thing.

The Swedish Short-Snout reared its horned head in the air, its scales flashing silver-blue against the sky, its roar filling the world. Standing in front of it Cedric Diggory looked very small, indeed, a mere black dot. The crowd screamed and gasped. To Hermione's left, Ron was as white as a sheet, and, on her right, Draco was completely still.

"_Les dragons!" _Sabine cried, her camera frantically clicking away. _"C'est incroyable-" _And then she was rattling off a long and rapid string of French that Hermione could no longer decipher, although she did catch the words _irresponsable _and _putain merveilleux._

"What's Cedric doing?" Seamus demanded, leaning forward to get a better view. "Blimey, I think he's-"

"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed. "Oh, that's rather-" _-bloody weird- _"-clever!"

Cedric had Transfigured a nearby rock into a dog. A yellow Labrador Retriever was now prancing around in the arena, barking up at the Swedish Short-Snout. The great reptile roared at it and pounced, leaving its nest behind. Cedric immediately broke into a run.

"No!" Lavender shouted, tugging the ends of her hair over her face. "Not the poor little puppy!"

"Is a nonliving thing Transfigured into an animal entitled to animal rights?" Hermione wondered out loud. "I mean, if you turn a rock into a dog, is it a dog, or a rock? For that matter, if it were the other way around and a dog was transformed into a rock-"

The other Gryffindors stared at her incredulously, their jaws hanging open. Even Draco was raising an eyebrow as he jotted down notes for his article.

"_I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT THE ETHICS OF TRANSFIGURATION AT A TIME LIKE THIS!" _Ron yelled in her ear.

Hermione couldn't help but feel smug. "Ethics" wasn't something that readily popped up in Ron's day-to-day vocabulary. Maybe S.P.E.W. was starting to rub off on him.

However, smugness soon gave way to full-blown horror as the dragon swiveled away from the Labrador and charged at Cedric. Well, it didn't so much charge as _flop, _lacking forward limbs, but it didn't need to move fast in such an enclosed space. Brilliant blue fire cascaded from its fanged mouth. Cedric dodged at the last minute, but the flame grazed the side of his face, knocking him down.

"_NOT THE FACE!" _Lavender, Parvati, and a dozen other girls shouted in dismay.

The audience watched with bated breath as Cedric staggered to his feet. The Swedish Short-Snout's tail flicked in the air as it readied itself for another assault, and, for a few heart-stopping seconds, boy and dragon stared at each other. Some of the Hufflepuffs had started crying. Hermione's nails were digging into Ron's forearm.

And then Cedric hurled himself at the nest. The beast released another jet of fire, but this time it missed him completely. His fingers closed around the Golden Egg.

* * *

Dragons. This explained why Fleur had been acting like she was on the verge of throwing up; she would have known about them beforehand. Draco had learned long ago never to underestimate Madame Maxime's deviousness.

Fleur must have gotten all the fright out of her system either yesterday or in the short walk from the tent, because the girl that sauntered into the enclosure was cool and composed, chin held high and pale hair billowing around her shoulders, falling to her waist. The Welsh Green's body curled around its nest, regarding her warily, its emerald-scaled wings tucked into its sides.

"She's tapping her foot," Cerise muttered darkly.

A couple of the seventh-years swore under their breaths. Draco had been in close proximity to their class long enough to pick up on the fact that Fleur tapping her foot meant she was severely rattled. Prone to making bad decisions.

Bastien was already halfway out of his seat. His hands were shaking, the terror so apparent on his thin face that it left no room for doubt about his feelings for Fleur. The girl took one step closer to the nest. Smoke rose up from the dragon's nostrils as a dry sob escaped from Bastien's throat. Before this moment, Draco hadn't realized it was possible for someone to care about somebody else this much. Looking at Bastien now was like seeing the world through different eyes.

Something forced Draco's attention back to the arena. It sounded like… music?

Fleur had her wand to her lips, slender fingers traveling down its length as if she were playing the flute. A melody wafted out from the wand's tip in delicate golden bars that somehow still managed to be louder than the excited chatter of the audience.

"_When I was a child, I learned my grandmother's songs," _Fleur had told Draco in the carriage, and, yes, this was Veela music, or, at least, a witch's version of it, low and lilting notes that called to mind the gloomy canopy of the Black Forest, gradually increasing in beat and volume like you were running through the trees on your bare feet, the woodland trilling all around you, the music pounding in your ears, until finally you broke through the last wall of branches and found yourself on an open field at the height of the crescendo and lifted your arms to the night sky and to the stars, as the wind blew in from the Rhine, stirring the long grass, and you felt you were soaring, falling _up _into an ocean of drifting constellations, your heart in your throat, high above the only Germany you had ever known.

And then the tempo softened, and you were floating back to earth, light as a feather, the moonlight cloaking you in silver dust, the music now as gentle as a lullaby, the wilderness welcoming you back into its arms…

As Fleur eased into the diminuendo, the Welsh Green's head dropped, its eyes snapping shut. Draco realized he was absent-mindedly tapping along to the rhythm on Hermione's knee. He snatched his hand back, his cheeks burning.

"Why'd you stop?" Hermione whispered. Her smile was just this side of mischievous, her hair falling around her face in unruly waves. She looked almost like a wild and secret thing herself. "You were just getting to the good part."

* * *

The Chinese Fireball's roaring shriek pierced the audience's ears as much as Fleur's charmed melody had soothed them. This particular dragon was sturdy and heavily armored, with its thick red scales and the fringe of golden spikes around its face, and it was also surprisingly fast, a much harder sell than either the Swedish Short-Snout or the Welsh Green. However, Krum had managed to hit it right in the eye with a Conjunctivitis Curse, and it was now trampling around in blind rage. Hermione winced as the dragon accidentally stepped on half its nest, the yolks dripping out from the shattered, gold-flecked shells.

"It's… We made it kill its young!" she sputtered. "That's barbaric! And I hardly suppose the Ministry will pay damages-"

Her protests were lost in the din of the crowd as Krum grabbed the Egg, but, over his notes, Draco shot her another one of those looks of his, the looks that played out all possible variations of "I've never seen your kind before."

And then all rational thought flew from Hermione's mind because, suddenly, just like that, it was Harry's turn.

In all of her life to come, she would never be able to recall most of Harry's time in the arena. Those moments bore down upon her as swiftly as lightning strikes, but they seemed to stretch on forever in that cold November afternoon. In the days that followed, corridors and common rooms would be abuzz with Harry's daring aerial maneuvers, but when she replayed the event in her head, she couldn't remember anything clearly, only brief flashes, images and sensations blurring together to form a hazy, disjointed picture. The Hungarian Horntail, all black scales and sharp bronze spikes and vicious fangs, its yellow eyes tracking the broomstick's flight. Its yowling screech, its red-hot flame. The flashes of Sabine's camera, Draco's frantic scribble on parchment, the gasping sounds emanating from Ron's throat. Her hands clawing at her face, fingernails digging into her cheeks, because she never asked for this, she never asked to care so much about the Boy Who Lived, the boy to whom everything happened. He'd saved her from the troll and killed the Basilisk and found Sirius only to lose him again, and it had felt like her heart was getting ripped into pieces, every time. It was so unfair, how much more could one life possibly endure, how much more another life could take of watching from the sidelines-

And then someone was gently prying her hands away from her face, clasping them in a firm and cool grip, the ink stains on his fingers rubbing off onto her palms.

"You don't have to look," Draco murmured.

"I always look," she replied.

He squeezed her hands. She squeezed back and didn't let go until the final dive.

* * *

Much, much later, in the safety of the tent, Harry surveyed the marks on her cheeks with chagrin.

"At least you didn't draw blood," he said.

"No," Hermione agreed with a shaky laugh. "I had someone to hold my hands."

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	10. To Hell with You and All Your Friends

**Notes: **I've just resurfaced from the first round of midterms and, as reviewers like WolfDarkfur know, Les Miz kind of took over my brain for a little while. But now it's back to your regularly scheduled updating! Thank you so much for all the great feedback. We finally have a banner, which you can view on the Hawthorn and Vine site or my LiveJournal (same username), as well as a spiffy brand-new summary. This is the longest chapter yet, and it didn't turn out quite the way I expected it to, but sometimes you just have to let the characters do the talking. Comments, suggestions, and constructive criticism are very welcome.

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

**To Hell with You and All Your Friends**

* * *

Draco glared down at the remaining articles that he needed to proofread. The staff that stayed behind to keep _La Plume _in publication consisted, for the most part, of embarrassingly sloppy writers. Acute and grave accents were all over the place. _Ta _and _t'as _were interchanged at random, and _ne _was entirely forgotten every third negation. And if he saw _le _instead of _la _one more time, he was going to kill something.

"Trouble?" Hermione asked absentmindedly, head bent over the parchment propped up on her lap.

"None more than usual," Draco replied, flashing a quick half-smile which went unnoticed, so absorbed was she in her work.

The two of them were sitting by the lake, leaning back against a tree trunk, shoulder to shoulder. Hermione was in the middle of a long and complicated Transfiguration essay; Draco had already spotted several English words that he wasn't familiar with, framed in her bold scrawl.

His quill scratched jagged red strokes all over Emil Fontaine's piece. The feature writer apparently had a fondness for _fût, _while at the same time lacking any idea how to employ it correctly in a sentence. Where did Fontaine get off using the subjunctive imperfect, anyway? He wasn't the Minister of Magic or a member of the upper echelons of pure-blood society. He was a grocer's son, for crying out loud!

"We're off to Hogsmeade this weekend," said Hermione. It was the _Harry-Ron-and-I _kind of _we. _"Perhaps you'd like to join us?"

Draco was curious about the village, and he certainly wanted to spend more time with Hermione, but not at the expense of being an intruder. Although he was on cordial terms with Harry and Ron, he doubted they would welcome his presence with much enthusiasm. It was all still too awkward, too new.

Sensing his hesitation, Hermione continued, "You should bring Sabine, too. It'll be fun."

"I shall have to think about it," Draco said vaguely.

But her eyes were already sparkling with the kind of inner light that showed itself whenever a new project caught her fancy. He sighed in resignation.

* * *

"No," said Sabine firmly, crossing her arms. "Absolutely not."

"Why on earth not?" Draco snapped. He was standing just outside her bedroom while she glared daggers at him from the open doorway.

"Look, I'm all for you finally getting yourself a girlfriend, but this is the wrong way to go about it," Sabine explained. "I'm not going to waste my Saturday making small talk in English with The Boy Who Lived and his sidekick while you try to hold Hermione Granger's hand."

Draco pasted on his most charming smile. "Not even for me?"

Sabine burst out laughing. She was still laughing when she closed the door in his face.

* * *

"Found it!" Cerise gaily announced as she sauntered up to the Ravenclaw table in the Great Hall, holding the Golden Egg.

"Where has that been all this time?" Jacqueline wondered. They'd lost track of the Egg right after the First Task, in the midst of the celebrations in the carriage where the punch had not been so much punch as fairy wine charmed an inauspicious pink color.

Cerise shuddered. "You don't want to know." She handed the Egg to Fleur, who weighed it speculatively in her palm. Draco glanced around and noticed a lot of Hogwarts students peering intently at their contingent.

"Go on, Delacour," Jean Lascelles urged his classmate. "Let's see what's inside."

Fleur laughed throatily. "All right. Here goes…"

A few Hufflepuffs leapt to their feet, shouting, "No!"

But it was too late. Fleur opened the Egg, and the most horrible screeching sound emanated from it, loud and shrill enough to make the windows tremble. Everyone in the Great Hall clapped their hands over their ears, except for the Beauxbatons students, who merely groaned. Fleur looked annoyed as she snapped the Egg shut.

"Really?" She sounded disgusted. "First dragons, now _them?"_

"I wonder what Melusine has to say about this," remarked Bastien. He was referring to the queen of the merfolk in the Mediterranean, who was notoriously against any involvement with wizards even though one of her tributaries flowed through the grounds of Beauxbatons.

Draco shrugged. "This is the United Kingdom. They do things differently here."

* * *

He regretted his decision to accompany Hermione and her friends to Hogsmeade the moment he set foot in the village. It was a blustery day; the wind bit into his skin. He felt like a human icicle as he walked down streets lined with thatched cottages and shops.

Oblivious to his predicament, the three Gryffindors kept up a lively conversation about classes Draco wasn't taking and people he didn't know. Once in a while, they asked him questions with painful politeness, but he could only reply in monosyllables because his teeth were chattering so hard.

There was a certain rhythm in the way Harry, Ron, and Hermione spoke among themselves. They knew their cues and all the history that made their inside jokes hilarious to them alone. Draco was sure they weren't excluding him deliberately, but they just had their own little world. They probably weren't even aware of it.

But he felt less charitable when they went into Honeydukes and he turned up his nose at a pack of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans

"You don't like them?" Ron asked, aghast, popping one into his mouth.

"They are not my favorite," Draco replied. He privately considered the sweet just another one of the many low points of British culinary taste. Besides, he always got coconut. It wasn't fair.

"What about Chocolate Frogs?" Harry wanted to know.

"They do not have flavor," said Draco, meaning that the Frogs lacked the finer nuances of most French confections.

They stared at him like he'd grown an extra head.

The awkwardness only increased when they entered The Three Broomsticks Inn. It was crowded, but there was an empty table right by the fireplace. However, there were only three chairs.

The four of them exchanged uneasy glances before Harry spoke up. "It's all right. I can stand."

"No, please," Draco said hurriedly. "Let me."

"This is your first time here," Harry insisted. "Make yourself comfortable."

Hermione looked torn, but Ron had already plunked down on one of the chairs. Draco found himself in a staring contest with Harry.

"Well…" The bespectacled boy shot Hermione a nervous look. "If you're sure…"

"Please," Draco repeated.

They settled themselves around the table. Madam Rosmerta brought over four tankards of Butterbeer and Draco's spirits lifted slightly as he sipped the hot, frothy concoction.

"That was excellent flying, with the dragon," he complimented Harry. "The notes I took were more for me than the paper."

"Er, thanks." Harry grinned. "D'you play Quidditch?"

"I am on the fourth-year team at school," said Draco. "Seeker."

Ron leaned forward with interest. "So you have eight teams, then?"

Draco nodded. "The first and second years do not participate in the official matches, though."

"Bit strange," Ron remarked. "Here, every team plays."

"Yes, but I'm certain your Quidditch is not as competitive," Draco pointed out.

The other boy's expression soured. "What's that mean, then?" he demanded.

Draco tried not to panic. Upon reflection, his comment had indeed sounded wrong; what he'd meant was that the older teams could be positively _brutal, _and the first and second years were rather… small. Beauxbatons would find itself flooded with Howlers from enraged parents if they let children play against hulking eighteen-year-olds.

Before he could explain himself, however, Hermione asked, in a too-bright voice, "Were you at the World Cup final?"

"No," Draco replied. His mother refused to set foot on British soil, and she'd balked at the prospect of Draco going alone. "I listened to it on the radio. Very exciting."

It was the icebreaker they had sorely needed. Soon the three boys were embroiled in a riveting discussion of the match, which Hermione gamely sat through with a straight face, although Draco caught her idly tapping the handle of her tankard from boredom. The language barrier crumbled in the face of the universal tongue of Quidditch, and somewhere in the middle of it all a group of Hufflepuffs vacated their table and Draco was even able to acquire a chair.

Things were beginning to look up. The Butterbeer and the roaring fire warmed Draco's bones as he established a rapport with Harry and Ron, while Hermione beamed at them proudly. All in all, it was turning out to have the makings of a fine day.

* * *

He should have known it wouldn't last forever.

They stopped by Zonko's Joke Shop before going back to the castle. Fleur was there with one of the Ravenclaw boys. She smirked at Draco over the tray of Sugar Quills and he nodded at her in return.

"You and your little English rose are so cute," she told him in French.

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. Unlike Fleur, he tended to refrain from rudely speaking his own language while in the company of people who couldn't understand, but for once he was glad to respond in kind. "I'm going to kill Sabine."

"One less fourth year in the world would be good," Fleur agreed lightheartedly. _"À bientôt, _Malfoy."

She drifted out of the shop with her date in tow and Ron staring after her in abject longing. When the redhead finally shook himself out of his daze, he turned to Draco with a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. "You lot have got the Egg all figured out, yeah?"

"Possibly," Draco said with caution. He and his schoolmates couldn't be _completely _sure, after all. It might be banshees.

"Well, what is it?" Ron asked.

This put Draco in the most untenable position of his young life, Father Death Eater notwithstanding. He wanted to remain on Hermione's friends' good side, and he'd forgotten up until that moment that they were all technically his rivals. He was a far cry from bursting with school spirit, but neither could he tell an opposing Champion something that all the competitors had to figure out on their own. He wished his delegation hadn't caused such a scene opening the Egg.

Hermione rushed to his defense. "Ron, you can't just _ask_ him that!" she snapped.

"Why not?" Ron demanded. "You want Harry to be prepared, don't you?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes, but not at the expense of putting Draco in an untenable position!"

Draco couldn't help gazing at her with something close to fondness. She really could read his mind sometimes.

* * *

Because of the incident in Zonko's, the mood was strained as they returned to Hogwarts. Clumsy goodbyes were exchanged outside the Beauxbatons carriage, but Hermione let Harry and Ron walk on ahead up to the castle.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Hermione cringed at how overly chipper her voice sounded, but she managed to keep the smile on her face.

"I suppose it could have been worse," Draco tactfully replied.

"It can only get better," she said fervently.

The faint beginnings of a boyish smirk played on the corners of his lips. His eyes were dark in the fading light. "I should hope."

* * *

"Ask him if he wants to sit with us at supper tomorrow," Parvati suggested in an offhand manner as she studied her reflection above the dressing table.

Hermione paled, frozen in the act of fluffing the pillows on her bed. "You _are _joking, aren't you? Seamus and Dean still haven't stopped saying _Sacrebleu! _every time they see me."

"Leave them to us," declared Lavender as she burrowed under the covers. "Only, it ought to be breakfast instead of supper, don't you think, Parvati? Hermione looks prettier in the morning."

"You've a point there," said Parvati.

Hermione blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

The two other girls exchanged uncomfortable glances. Finally, Parvati said, "Well, Hermione, it's just that… You're very conscious about school, aren't you, so as the day goes on, you start looking more and more… frazzled." She gestured to her head, tugging at her own sleek black hair for emphasis. "So in the evenings you kind of look like… like…"

"Like a cranky lion," Lavender supplied. "Which isn't a bad thing, not at all, but, yes, your hair does get… fluffy…"

When it came to her hair, Hermione was a great believer in the adage _Live and let live. _She'd despaired of getting it under control years ago, and it had become such an inconsequential part of her that it was always a surprise whenever people commented on just how conspicuous it was.

"Don't worry, I know just the spell for that," said Parvati, radiating confidence. "But we should save it for the Yule Ball. Imagine the look on everyone's faces!"

This brought them back to the original topic under discussion: how to get Draco to ask Hermione to the Ball. Or, more precisely, how to give Draco the impression that if he were to ask, Hermione would not be opposed to saying yes.

* * *

Draco had been raised in a world of exquisite table manners and refined breeding. Therefore, lunch with the Gryffindors came as a rather nasty shock. They were a rowdy bunch, all boisterous laughter and spilled soup and neglected napkins and hands everywhere _except on the table. _Draco prided himself on his awareness that British and French etiquette had their differences, but, even so, he had a difficult time trying not to look shocked when Harry took a huge bite from a loaf of bread instead of tearing it into pieces.

"Bouillabaisse _again?" _Ron groaned, pushing away the bowl of fish stew. "When's this gonna end? No offense, Draco."

"None taken," Draco primly replied. "I do not particularly like it myself-" The sentence choked off in his throat when Ron attacked a plate of roast beef as if it had personally insulted his mother.

To distract himself, Draco turned to Hermione, who was taking fastidious sips from a goblet of pumpkin juice. "You are not eating?"

"I had a sandwich earlier," she said.

"For the last time, Hermione," said Ron through a mouthful of carrots and potatoes, "the house-elves _like _preparing our food. It's their bloody job!"

She narrowed her eyes. "It's not exactly gainful employment, now, is it? They don't even have wages!"

"If we tried to pay them, they'd kill themselves!" said Lavender. "That's just the way they are."

"They simply do not know any better," Hermione argued. "No sentient being should accept a way of life that renders them subordinate to humans. That's ghastly!"

"Hermione has a point," Dean piped up.

"Oh, what do you know?" said Parvati. "You were raised Muggle. You and Hermione can't just impose your values on us-"

"Equal rights is not a subjective value!" Hermione exclaimed. "Right, Harry?"

With the air of a cornered animal, Harry chose that moment to grab a large spoonful from the nearest bowl, which happened to be the bouillabaisse. He looked vaguely sick as he chewed, but kept on with this reprieve in determination.

The discussion turned heated as almost everyone else joined in with their own opinions. Draco ducked his head, absolutely appalled that they were arguing about politics at the dining table. This was the worst meal ever.

"The thing is," said Ron as he shoveled more food into his mouth, "you're doing them more harm than good. You're scaring them off with your talk of emancipation and suchlike. They're not ready for that, they don't want it-"

"That's because they don't know what's good for them!" said Dean, waving a fried chicken wing in Ron's face. He was eating with his hands. He was _actually eating with his hands._

"Oh, and I suppose _you _do? An elf now, are you?" In his fervor, Ron hadn't even bothered to swallow. A fleck of gravy-coated meat flew from his mouth, landing on Draco's cheek.

Something inside the Beauxbatons student shriveled up and died at this point. At the end of his rope, Draco set his utensils down with a deliberate clatter that would have made Narcissa raise an eyebrow in admonishment. "I beg your pardon," he said coldly, staring at Ron.

Everyone stopped talking. Tension settled like a fog. Hermione's brow wrinkled in concern, but she didn't say anything as she looked at him, biting her lip.

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco noticed his schoolmates filing out of the Great Hall. He should join them. It had been a mistake to sit here in the first place.

Calmly, he dabbed at his face with his table napkin. "I must go," he said to Hermione. "Thank you for inviting me to lunch."

He nodded at the rest of the silent Gryffindors and stood up. As he walked away, he heard Ron muttering sullenly, "I dunno what he was so pissy about, it was just a little beef- almost as bad as his father-"

"Ron!" Hermione gasped. She sounded tearful, a fact that wrenched at Draco, but he didn't- _couldn't- _go back. He left the Great Hall, his cheeks burning from indignation and shame.

* * *

"Well," said Parvati as they headed to their next class, "I think we can all agree that was quite a bust."

"Draco needs to learn how to lighten up," Lavender observed.

"You have to look at it from his point of view, though," said Parvati. "I mean, how would _you _like it if you got Ron's spit all over your face?"

"He still shouldn't have left," insisted Lavender. "That was unbearably rude. Are you all right, Hermione?"

"Yes," the girl in question replied. It was a blatant lie, of course, but pride demanded that she keep up an unruffled appearance, no matter how torn she was inside. She had no idea how to deal with this situation. She didn't even know how she should feel about it.

It was with relief that Hermione absorbed herself in her Study of Ancient Runes lecture. Here, at last, was a world she could decipher.

* * *

When he returned to the carriage, Draco found himself walking into yet another argument. The living room was empty except for Fleur and Bastien; everyone else seemed to have beaten a hasty retreat while the two yelled at each other.

"I can date anyone I please!" Fleur declared, tossing back her silvery hair. "It's none of your business!"

"It could be, if you let it!" roared Bastien. "If you _made _it my business-"

Draco cleared his throat. Two pairs of eyes swiveled in his direction.

"Excuse me," he said politely. The older students remained frozen as he made his way to his room, taking great care to close the door behind him.

Bastien followed a few minutes later. Draco avoided the other boy's eyes, studiously bending his head over a textbook.

"Remember what I told you," said Bastien into the silence, "about beautiful girls being crazy?"

Draco nodded, unsure where his roommate was going with this.

"I've revised my theory," Bastien mused as he sat down on his bed with a heavy sigh. "We're the crazy ones, you and I and every other poor sod out there. They fuck with our heads. They drive us insane. We find ourselves getting into all sorts of impossible situations because of them. And they make us think they're worth it. I can't even blame Veela magic anymore. It's just what girls _do."_

_Not all of them, _Draco wanted to say, but the disastrous lunch and the awkward Hogsmeade moments were still fresh in his mind.

"Look at you and Hermione, for example," Bastien continued. "What's going to happen when you go back to France at the end of the tournament? Are you really going to waste the rest of your school years pining after her?"

Draco hadn't even considered that. Hadn't _wanted _to consider it. But it was an inescapable fact. If he allowed himself to get used to Hermione's presence, he would miss her when she was gone. He didn't have a clear idea what it was like to miss someone, but when he glanced at the ruin on Bastien's face, he had a terrible premonition of what lay in store for him at the end of this particular road, if he chose to continue travelling it.

"Guard your heart, little fourth year," said Bastien bitterly.

* * *

It took all of Hermione's courage to go down to the carriage a couple of days later. She had seen neither hide nor hair of Draco in all that time, but she'd come to the logical conclusion that they needed to talk. She marched onto the grounds with the determined air of one about to go into battle, but her nerves failed her once she came to a stop outside the carriage.

_What am I doing? _she asked herself wildly. _Maybe I should just turn back. Give him space. _If Parvati and Lavender's conversations were anything to go by, boys seemed to like space a lot. Maybe she should just-

"If you have a stare contest with the door, the door will always win, I think," said a cheerful, heavily-accented voice.

Hermione flashed Sabine a nervous smile. "What have you got there?" she asked, indicating the brown bag the French girl was holding.

"Draco's breakfast," Sabine replied with a long-suffering sigh. "If this is the pattern for the rest of the tournament, he will need to start tipping me. Let us go in, yes?" Without further ado, she led Hermione into the carriage.

Hermione felt as if she had walked into another realm. The air in the living room smelled like crushed flowers and was filled with sunlight streaming in through gauzy curtains. It was a tastefully appointed place, all pale colors and delicate rosewood. Draco was writing by the marble fireplace, looking for all the world like a prince straight out of the pages of history.

The quill in his hand froze when he noticed their entrance. Sabine placed the bag in front of him and tactfully disappeared into her quarters, leaving behind a tense silence.

Hermione was the first one to break it. "Hello," she said, trying not to wring her hands.

Draco rose to his feet. "Good morning."

"I thought that we should… We ought to talk."

Draco pulled out a chair for her and they sat down, regarding each other tersely across the table.

_I miss you, _Hermione wanted to tell him. _I'm not used to not seeing you, not speaking to you… _But he looked so forbidding here in a setting that emphasized his aristocratic demeanor, his gray eyes sharp and remote in the morning light. The careful words left her and, instead, she started to babble.

"I wanted to apologize for my friends. I know they can be a handful. Upon reflection, I can understand how it must've come as a shock to you. Ron grew up in a large family, you see, loads of siblings. He thinks that if he doesn't eat fast, he won't get to eat at all-"

"Hermione, please," Draco quietly interrupted. "It was a misunderstanding. We should forget it."

"All right," she said, her brow creasing. It wasn't exactly the response she'd hoped for, but at least he wasn't calling her friends barbarians and her a barbarian by association. "So we're okay?"

"We're okay," he repeated.

It lacked conviction. It sounded sort of… strangled. She decided to take the plunge, in any case. Parvati and Lavender had explicitly warned her against what she was about to do next, but she had no desire to be stuck here all afternoon making small talk when the one thing she wanted was within reach.

"How would you like to go to the Yule Ball with me? I'll make sure to keep you away from Ron when he's eating," she finished with a grin.

"I already have plans," Draco replied.

"Oh," she said, blinking. "Too bad."

"I'm sorry."

"Nonsense." She stood up briskly. "No need to apologize. I'd better get going, class in a bit…"

"I will see you out," he offered, but she shook her head.

"No, it's perfectly fine, thank you. I'll see you soon."

The moment she exited the carriage, Hermione realized her heart was pounding at an alarming rate although the rest of her felt numb. The reality of the situation had yet to fully sink in, but she was distantly aware of blood rushing to her cheeks and the desire to burst into tears clawing at her throat. Hermione Jean Granger could deal with being humiliated, but what she could never forgive anyone for was making her feel stupid.

She ran all the way back to the castle, desperate to forget.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	11. Miss Me When I'm Gone

**Notes: **I know everyone's excited for the Yule Ball, but I had to get this chapter out of the way first. See if you can spot the Nikita and Firefly references! As always, comments, suggestions, and constructive criticism are very welcome. The next time I see you guys, it will be at the Ball!

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

**Miss Me When I'm Gone**

* * *

"What," Sabine demanded, barging once more into the living room, "was _that?"_

Draco's lip curled. "Of course you were eavesdropping."

"Naturally!" she snapped. "You 'already have plans'? _What _plans? Are you going to take someone else to the Yule Ball? Enlighten me, Malfoy. Tell me about this new mystery girl, because I sure as hell haven't seen her around!"

Draco ignored her tirade as he started scribbling on his parchment once more. But the wellspring of inspiration that gripped him earlier in the morning had now run dry. Sentences formed in his mind, only to peter out into nothing more than drops of ink beading the white space after the lines he had already written. He could only stare at those black dots, not wanting to think of anything else, not wanting to remember the teasing grin on Hermione's face and how it had faded. A tense, heavy feeling prickled the back of his neck. He frowned down at arms covered in goose-bumps.

He felt colder than usual.

Sabine plopped into the chair Hermione had vacated. She stared levelly at Draco for a long time before she asked, "There's no other girl, is there?"

"You know there isn't."

"Then why…?"

"It would have ended badly otherwise."

"Yes, and _this _was such a great way to end it-"

"I'm only sparing Hermione and myself from pain," Draco patiently explained. "I don't get along with her friends, and I'm leaving in a few months. What's the use?"

"The use?" Sabine echoed, green eyes flashing. "The _use _is that you could be happy, you dolt! You met someone worth your time who was also someone who could put up with you. Don't you know how rare that is? And you let her go, just like that. I'm- well, I'm absolutely disgusted."

The words sounded oddly mature. Draco was smart enough to recognize seventh-year talk when he heard it. "You've been hanging around Cerise too much."

"And you," Sabine replied in clipped tones, "should stop listening to Bastien Auclair."

"That has nothing to do with-" Draco started to protest halfheartedly, but she barreled ahead.

"Everyone heard that screaming match the other day. I don't think it's coincidence that you did this- this massively _stupid _thing in the middle of Auclair's sulk. He's heartbroken; of course he'd warn you against romance. But if Fleur felt the same way for him, you can bet he'd be singing a different tune."

"There _will _be heartbreak," insisted Draco. "It lies ahead, at the start of summer. Why should I wait for it?"

That shut Sabine up for a while, to his immense satisfaction. There was a long pause as he returned to his work. Part of him was glad that he could write again; he was penning a description of the events of the First Task, and the brief quarrel with his closest friend had given him the burst of frustration that he needed to tackle the dragons.

_Je me souviendrai toujours de battement d'ailes puissantes, de rugissement du feu, et de courage des Champions quand ils confrontés les terribles bêtes… _It was a bit sappy, but it would have to do for now. He marked the sentence as a placeholder, to be refined in later edits.

"You and I don't know much about the world, do we?" Sabine suddenly asked, sounding pensive enough to make him glance up from the parchment. "We're only just kids. I didn't realize until this year… I mean, the sevenths and eighths, they seem so sure of what's going on, most of the time. They're always laughing at how easy our homework is, and when they give me advice it sounds so… so patronizing. I've learned a lot from them, but it would be nice to feel like you and I aren't the only ones muddling in the dark. I miss our classmates. Don't you?"

Draco shrugged. "We'll see them next term."

The truth was that, aside from Sabine, Draco wasn't particularly attached to anyone in his class. He was familiar with their habits and their quirks, but he only tolerated them at best. Draco thought of Noel, Chantal, and the rest of his Quidditch team, those he'd once trained with almost every day, and he realized that it was kind of sad that he'd never once felt their absence in all his time here in Great Britain.

Maybe the problem was him. Maybe he just didn't know how to _be_ with people. Sabine had demanded his friendship the day she sat next to him in their very first class because "You're the only one around here who doesn't seem like a total fool," and Hermione, well, she'd sort of snuck up on him. He hadn't been able to get rid of the former, but he'd succeeded in pushing the latter away.

It had felt like the right thing to do at the time, but now that the sting of the moment was wearing off, it was beginning to appear more and more like a hollow victory.

"Anyway," sighed Sabine, "like I said, I don't know much, but I do know what I believe."

"And what would that be?" Draco asked.

"You shouldn't be so afraid of losing something that you don't try to have it at all."

With that last parting shot, Sabine stood up and went back to her room, leaving Draco alone with his dark thoughts.

* * *

What really took Hermione by surprise was how it easy it was for her to push Draco Malfoy to the back of her mind.

School was a big help in that regard. After the incident in the carriage, the days passed in a blur; she wrote five essays, annotated twenty different chapters, solved fifty-three Arithmancy problems, and practiced on her spell-craft, hardly pausing to draw breath. She produced some of her best work during this period, and Draco took on the quality of a dull toothache, the type that was forgotten except when she prodded it. So, for the most part, she didn't. She withdrew from her social circle because the Yule Ball was all they could talk about, and Parvati and Lavender seemed especially keen on bringing up the topic of Draco.

"You're hurting. We know you are," Parvati had declared. "We have to hash it out. The only way to let pain go is to talk about it, yeah?"

_Maybe I like my pain, _Hermione had thought mutinously. It gave her a single-minded determination that she hadn't even known she was capable of, and the feeling was a comfort in itself. She reveled in her strength.

She was halfway through her fifty-fourth Arithmancy exercise in the library when Viktor Krum approached her. Head bent over a piece of parchment, she didn't register his presence until he said, in a deep gravelly voice, "Excuse me."

Hermione blinked up at him. She could see his fan club in the background, glaring daggers at her from behind a shelf.

"Yes? How may I help you?" Her words came out a little priggish, but she was still harboring a grudge after the countless times giggling girls had ruined her concentration in the place she went to for peace and quiet.

"I wish to sit," he said awkwardly in his thick Bulgarian accent.

Hermione glanced around. Hers was the only occupied table in the library.

"With you," Viktor amended. "If you permit it."

"All right," she said, confused.

He pulled up a chair and sat down. He seemed less sure of himself on the ground than on a broomstick, and this endeared him to her a little bit.

Viktor darted a glance at her homework from beneath his black eyebrows. _"Magiyata na chislata," _he mumbled in recognition.

"Pardon?"

"The magic of numbers… Sorry, I forget the English…"

"Arithmancy," Hermione gently supplied.

"Yes, that's it. Not my best subject, but is nice when you follow on a theorem and suddenly everything… makes sense. You know, it-"

"Clicks," they both finished at the same time.

Viktor managed a small smile. Hermione was surprised by how easy it was for her to smile back. He was tall and sallow, his rough features containing none of Draco's fine-boned grace, but beneath the surliness his dark eyes were soft and kind of shy.

"May I know your name?" he asked.

She introduced herself, and his lips moved wordlessly as he accustomed his tongue to the progression of syllables. "Hermy-own," he tried at last.

"We can work on that," she said, almost giggling and hating herself for it.

"I am Viktor."

"Yes, I know. I was at the World Cup final."

Unexpectedly, he looked down in embarrassment. "I was very muddy, full of sweat…"

"So were all the other players," she assured him. "I'm not a fan of the game, but I do know the crowd went bonkers when you caught the Snitch. I don't think it mattered very much how you looked."

"What happened after, though, on the camping grounds…" He shook his head. "Disgrace."

_Masked figures, green light, the world on fire, four people floating, limbs contorted in the air, spinning, the woman being flipped upside down to reveal her undergarments, jeers, drunken laughter, "You are not worthy, you do not deserve…", the Dark Mark in the sky like a planet…_

Hermione shook her head to free herself from the grip of the distressing images. She knew Durmstrang Institute admitted only children from pure-blood families; it was time to put all her cards on the table. "Yes, one of the looters tried to kill me," she told Viktor. "He knew I was Muggle-born."

She hadn't even realized she was also in danger. No one had warned them. A tall masked figure reared up in her memory, just at the edge of the forest, sneering _Mudblood, _wand raised, halfway through Avada Kedavra… Ron forgetting all magic, charging into the attacker hard enough to interrupt the spell and knock the man off his feet… Running with her boys into the cover of the trees…

"I am sorry," said Viktor. "We are not all like You-Know-Who. Blood doesn't matter to me."

Draco had said that to her, too, long ago. But what if he'd been lying? Maybe he hadn't wanted to go as far as taking a Muggle-born girl to a huge public event like the Yule Ball. Suddenly, the ache was back, crashing into her at full force.

Viktor frowned. "Are you all right?"

Hermione realized to her utmost horror that her eyes were wet. "Yes, I'm fine," she said, taking a deep breath, willing away the tears.

"Um, I have tried to speak with you before," Viktor said slowly, "here in the library. But you always look busy, or you're with Harry Potter. And I know you're busy now, too, but I think I will not get another chance like this, so…"

He trailed off. Hermione stared at him. She knew what was coming. She gripped the quill in her hand so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

"So, ah, Hermy-own, would you go to the Yule Ball with me?" Viktor finished, looking absolutely hopeless, shoulders falling into himself as if he were bracing for rejection.

"_I already have plans," _Draco had said, his stony gaze hard and unflinching.

"Yes," Hermione replied in a distant voice that didn't seem like her own. "Yes, Viktor, I'd love to go to the Ball with you."

* * *

Fleur emerged from the lake, the sunlight turning her hair into wet gold. Teeth chattering, she wrapped a cloak around herself and used her wand to siphon out all traces of moisture.

"I hate this country," she ranted at her schoolmates, who had gathered by the shore to keep an eye on her as she practiced. "Why does it have to be so cold all the time? I wish I were back in the Riviera."

"We all do," said Cerise, who had borrowed Fleur's muffler and Lascelles' mitts. "How's your Bubble-Head Charm coming along?"

"What I need is a good Warming Spell," Fleur groused.

"None of us know how to do that," said Adrien.

It was true. Any attempt made by the Beauxbatons contingent at generating magical heat often ended in explosions or a room-temperature buzz that crumbled at the slightest breeze. On this particular day, Draco couldn't even feel his hands anymore. He huddled closer to Sabine.

"Seriously, though," said Cerise, "how's the Charm?"

"I'm working on it," Fleur snapped.

"Sheesh." Cerise rolled her eyes. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed."

"And you know why? Because my bed was _freezing."_

"Ladies," Brys drawled, "as much as I love a good catfight, my dick's about to fall off. Shall we continue this discussion inside the carriage? We can all gather by the fire and treat ourselves to Sumaya's famous _chocolat chaud."_

"Make your own damn _chocolat chaud, _Desrosiers," Sumaya grumbled.

But the prospect of seeking refuge from the cold indoors was too much to resist. The shores emptied as the students trooped back to the carriage. Draco found himself at the tail-end of the group when Fleur suddenly called his name.

He stopped and turned back to her. She hadn't moved from her spot. Lake water lapped at the hem of her robes.

"That argument, a few days ago- I'd appreciate it if you kept what you heard to yourself," said Fleur.

Draco wondered if he should tell her that _everyone _had been privy to that particular conversation, as no one had been polite enough to soundproof their respective rooms. It was all they talked about these days behind Fleur and Bastien's backs- that and the Yule Ball.

However, he really wasn't in the mood for another one of Fleur's tantrums, so he simply nodded.

"Good." Fleur tilted her head contemplatively. It was a strange look on her; he wasn't used to seeing her unsure. "How's Bastien?"

Draco shrugged. He felt some loyalty towards the older boy, since they were both _La Plume _staff, and being roommates this year had brought them closer together.

"It's not really him, you know," Fleur mused. "It's all me. It's _always _all me."

"You told me once that I could choose what defines me," Draco quietly said. "You should, too."

Fleur shook her head. "I'm not talking about blood, this time. I'm talking about _me." _Her features were still proud, still disdainful, but there was a hint of sadness in her blue eyes. "I don't think I know how to love anything."

She brushed past him on her way back to the carriage, and he was left alone to stare at the lake. He found himself remembering all the times he and Hermione had spent on its cool shores. The scent of brown sugar and vanilla as they bowed their heads over homework, the flight of her hands in the dusk, the warmth of the scarf she'd draped around his neck on that terrible day Rita Skeeter's article came out…

A worried voice broke through his thoughts. "Malfoy?" Sabine was peering at him curiously. "Aren't you coming in?"

"You were wrong," he told her, his heart pounding.

"Excuse me?"

"The sevenths and eighths _don't _always have it all figured out. They can hide it better, but they're just as confused as us. They don't know what they're talking about. _Bastien _doesn't know what he's talking about."

And then he was hurrying to the castle, at as fast a pace as his feet could take him while still maintaining dignity.

* * *

He saw her as she was leaving the Great Hall. She was giggling about something with her girl friends. He marched up to her without a moment's hesitation, and her eyes widened when she spotted him.

Draco had planned a careful speech in his head, but a look of pain flickered on her delicate features and he lost the words. He stood in front of her, his mouth dry, while Parvati and Lavender flanked her sides, glaring at him.

"I apologize," Draco said. "Go to the Yule Ball with me."

Her friends gasped, while the tips of his ears turned pink. _Really? _That was his grandiose invitation? His silver-tongued ancestors must be turning over in their graves by now.

"Oh," Hermione squeaked. "I- I thought you had other plans?"

"No," he quickly replied. "I was… being stupid. I'll tell you about it. I'll tell you everything. Just- let me escort you? Please?"

She bit her lip, looking torn. And then he watched her face turn resolute, he watched her square her shoulders and lift her chin with every single vestige of her wounded pride.

"Someone already asked me," she told him in a chilly voice, looking him right in the eye as his heart dropped. "And I said yes."

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	12. Lovely Tonight

**Notes: **In this chapter, Bastien references the song _La complainte de la butte _by Rufus Wainwright (I know it's anachronistic but I couldn't resist, it's only one line which you can pretend he came up with on his own, pretty please?), while Draco makes use of _Le lac _by the classical poet Lamartine. I don't trust myself with translating that wonderful poem into English, but if it bothers you too much, please let me know and I'll include a rough translation in the notes section of the next update. We've passed the halfway point of this fic; there are only ten chapters to go, if not less. It continues to be an awesome journey for me thanks to all of you guys. This was my favorite part to write so far, and I hope you all enjoy it, too! Corrections, suggestions, and constructive criticism are very welcome.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

**Lovely Tonight**

* * *

Cerise sniffed as the oak front doors opened to let the Durmstrang delegation into the entrance hall, allowing her another glimpse of the grotto twinkling with fairy lights that she'd already complained about when they came up from the carriage. "The decorations are certainly tacky, aren't they? I would say… _nouveau riche."_

Bastien chortled. "That's hilarious, coming from a New Yorker. All Americans are _nouveau riche, ma chérie." _To mock her, he pronounced the last word the way she did, with a hard _ch _sound.

She rolled her eyes at him, smugly hooking an arm into the crook of Lascelles' elbow. "My, my, someone's awfully cranky because they don't have a date."

Bastien's lip curled, but instead of replying, he took a swig from the flask of Firewhiskey he'd managed to smuggle in.

Draco took advantage of the momentary lull in conversation to search the entrance hall for a familiar head of bushy hair. He was desperately curious as to who Hermione's escort was. Some dreary Hogwarts boy, no doubt, with no knowledge of classical literature or which fork to use. He hoped she was already having a bad time.

"She's not here yet," murmured Sabine.

"I wasn't looking for her," he snapped defensively. "If I'd known you'd keep bringing her up, I wouldn't have asked you to come to this pathetic affair with me."

Sabine grimaced. "It's true, love really _does _turn people into assholes." She reached for Bastien's flask and unceremoniously used his hand to tip it into her mouth.

"You're too young to be drinking," the older boy mildly remarked.

"I need all the alcohol I can get if I'm going to put up with this joker for the rest of the night," Sabine declared, jabbing a furious thumb in Draco's direction. "He's been a complete jerk ever since his little English rose turned him down- which was kind of _your _fault, Auclair, so you can just keep your smart-ass comments to yourself, thanks."

Draco stifled a groan. It was already turning out to be a horrible evening. Sabine had a point, though; he'd been extremely short-tempered these past few days. He was about to apologize to her, but Professor Minerva McGonagall chose that moment to call out, "Champions over here, please!"

Draco was a head shorter than the older Beauxbatons students, so at first he couldn't see the Champions and their dates as the crowd parted to let them through. Sabine, however, stuck her head between Sumaya's and Brys' shoulders and let out a long, slow whistle.

"Cho Chang is such a babe," she said. "And… uh oh."

"Is something wrong?" Draco asked, because she'd whipped around to stare anxiously at him.

He didn't have to wait long to find out what the matter was, because the people in front of him shifted their positions, and he saw her.

The thing about girls was that they had no qualms about catching you by surprise, even when you thought they couldn't anymore. You believed you knew all there was to know about them, but suddenly they would smile a certain way or crack a funny joke or the light would hit them just right, and another layer would be peeled off and you would feel like you were looking at them for the first time. Draco had already lived that moment with Hermione on innumerable occasions, but here it was again, because her chestnut hair was sleek and shiny and twisted up into an elegant knot at the back of her head, allowing only a few strands to tumble down and curl around her face, and she was wearing periwinkle-blue robes that seemed to float with her every step, and her eyes were bright and her smile was everything and she was so beautiful that his heart broke right then and there.

He almost took a step towards her. He almost reached for her. _I'm sorry, please come back to me, I didn't know it would hurt this much-_

But then she leaned forward to giggle with Parvati, and that was when he noticed she was standing beside Viktor Krum.

"You look like you've swallowed a coconut Every Flavor Bean," Sabine remarked.

* * *

"Malfoy's over there, in the corner near the doors," Ron muttered in her ear once Viktor had gone off to get some drinks.

Hermione fanned herself with her hands. She was a bit pink from dancing. "I wasn't looking for him," she remarked airily.

Ron grinned. "Sure."

"Stop it!" She batted at his shoulder. "Go talk to Padma. She's glowering at the back of your head so hard I'm surprised you're not exploding right now."

He made an impatient noise in his throat. "I didn't really want to go with her, you know."

"That makes you a wanker," she carefully explained.

"That's lovely, Hermione, thanks," he said with a scowl that held no real anger behind it.

She stuck her tongue out at him and they gazed at the people on the dance floor for a while, snickering at Mad-Eye Moody's two-step. On the other side of Ron, Harry was sneaking mulish glances at Cho and Cedric while he nursed his Butterbeer. Hermione was sorry for Parvati, but the feeling faded when she looked around for her roommate and saw her dancing with Adrien. Parvati caught her eye and winked over the French boy's shoulder. Hermione waved back.

Ron spoke up. "You know, I kind of-" He studied his fingernails for a moment, and then looked at her ruefully. "When you told us that Malfoy turned you down, I wanted to rip his guts out. And then… And then I wanted to ask you."

Hermione stared at him blankly. The blood rushed to his cheeks, turning him as maroon as his dress robes.

"As- as- a friend," he faltered. "'Cause I felt bad for you, yeah?"

"I'm not a charity case, Ron!" she snapped.

"Never said you were," he retorted. "It's just- well, all right, so Malfoy and I, we don't get on, and maybe I wanted to be the one to make him see what he was missing."

"Why _didn't _you ask me, then?" Hermione challenged him.

He tugged at the lace frill of his collar, distinctly uncomfortable. "It was the look on your face when you told us," he muttered. "I didn't want to be a substitute. I'd have resented you for that."

Hermione was suddenly very, very suspicious. She leaned in closer to Ron, inhaled, and then recoiled.

"_You've been drinking!" _she all but shrieked.

* * *

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. "Was it really necessary to offer Weasley a shot?" he asked Bastien witheringly.

The older boy shrugged. "The two of you exchanged social pleasantries, he asked what I was holding, I let him find out. That's the way parties work, my friend."

"There were hardly any pleasantries," said Draco. At one point after the feast, he and the redhead had found themselves standing beside each other and had uttered clipped, perfunctory greetings. _I've felt your spit, _had been all Draco could think during the short-lived conversation.

"He's fine, see?" Bastien gestured to the other side of the Great Hall, where Ron, Harry, and Hermione were sitting at a table.

As he watched Ron and Hermione talk, Draco found himself once again fighting back the bile that had been rising up in his throat the whole night, although it wasn't as bad as when she and Krum had danced. _That _had been torture, pure and simple.

Speak of the devil- Krum appeared at her elbow, two drinks in hand. She smiled at him and he said something that made her throw back her head and laugh.

Draco wanted to puke.

It was just… She looked so _happy. _All soft and glowing in this room with its silver frost and its mistletoe garlands. That could have been him beside her right now, making her laugh like that. Instead, here he was, all the way across the Hall, playing nursemaid to an inebriated eighth year student.

"You poor kid," sighed Bastien. "I really did a number on you, didn't I?"

"There was nothing you did to me that I would not have done to myself," Draco replied stiffly. "At least give me credit for making my own mistakes."

Bastien beamed, eyeing him with something close to pride. "What a gorgeous little 'fuck you' that was! Pure-blood manners to the core. I could almost be home in Nantes again."

"You're drunk before midnight, so I _definitely _feel like I'm home in Nantes again."

"I'm not drunk. The floor is just on the roof."

Some of Draco's pent-up frustration spilled onto his tongue. "Your mother would be ashamed."

"We're playing _that _game, are we?" Bastien slurred. "Very well then, Malfoy. _Your _mother would be proud. What a good little scion you are, not taking a Muggle-born to the Ball."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "You know that has absolutely nothing to do with-"

"Are the two of you actually talking about your mothers?" Sabine butted in, having just returned from the refreshment table with a glass of water for Bastien. She shook her head in disgust. "I'll never understand you people."

"That's okay," Bastien haughtily replied. Maybe it was the alcohol affecting his demeanor, but he looked oddly defiant as he tilted his pale, aristocratic face to the star-strewn ceiling. "We don't need anyone to understand us. That's what it means to be pure-blood."

* * *

"I can't be_lieve _you didn't tell us you were going with _Viktor Krum!" _Lavender screeched in Hermione's ear over the wails of the Weird Sisters. "I mean, what are friends _for, _Hermione?"

"I didn't think anyone would believe me," Hermione admitted with a sheepish grin.

"Of course we wouldn't have! But you still should've said something!" Lavender exclaimed. "Oh, look, here he comes- see you later!"

She disappeared into the crowd, and Hermione turned to Viktor. He held out his hand to her in a silent request for another dance, and she took it. She spun and dipped in his calloused yet gentle palms, her robes swirling around her ankles, the room blurring into snowflakes and lights, and it was all great fun, such a change of pace from studying and practicing spells. Sometimes you just needed to look up from your books once in a while. Sometimes you just needed to breathe.

"You are a very good dancer, Herm-own-ninny," Viktor complimented.

"Thanks," she replied breathlessly. "You're not so bad yourself." She'd thought he'd be horrible, judging from the way he walked, but all that ungainliness had disappeared since the very first waltz.

He shrugged. "Is like Quidditch. There is… rhythm. A pattern."

_I have wings, even on the ground, _Draco had told her in the quiet of the library amidst the scents of parchment and ink.

Hermione's good mood faded somewhat. She glanced over Viktor's broad shoulder and saw Draco talking quietly with Bastien and Sabine. He was handsome in his formal black robes, if a bit stuffy-looking, and she watched as he leaned back in his chair, casually slipping a hand into his pocket in that mannerism she knew so well, and, oh, how it hurt.

"You are missing someone?" Viktor suddenly asked.

"What?" Hermione blinked. "No, I…" She trailed off, unsure how to finish her statement.

"Your eyes are sad."

And Hermione thought about how she'd always been so transparent and how that had never really gotten her anywhere, and how terribly Harry was treating Parvati because he'd wanted to go with someone else, and how earnest Viktor looked in this moment, big and awkward and unexpectedly careful.

Infatuation made people selfish, but she wasn't.

"I'm fine, Viktor," she lied. The words came out sounding a little choked, but she managed to paste a smile on her face, the kind of smile that made your cheeks ache because you were trying to convince your body you were happy. "Just a little tired."

"The Ball is almost over," he said. And then he added, with a hint of shyness, "Sadly."

It sounded like a question. Hermione nodded. "Yes, too bad."

* * *

"I am _so _glad this thing is over!" Sabine declared as the festivities drew to a close and people started trekking out of the Great Hall. "Worst night of my life!"

"What are you talking about?" Bastien bawled in her ear, leaning heavily onto her. "It was the _best!"_

"You smell like a distillery exploded with you in it," Sabine snapped. "I just hope the _Directrice _doesn't notice…"

Draco and Sabine led a staggering Bastien out the doors and onto the icy grounds. They were trying to act casual, but it was difficult with the older, taller boy draping his arms around their shoulders and wishing a cheerful good night to everyone they passed by.

"_Bonne nuit, belles dames!" _he all but shouted at a couple of Hufflepuff girls, who giggled while their escorts looked on sourly. _"Sois la bienvenue dans mon coeur brisé!"_

The usually ebullient Sabine looked like she wanted to burst into tears- of rage. "This is so embarrassing."

"We're almost there," said Draco. He could see the lights of the Beauxbatons carriage in the distance.

"What's going on?" demanded a throaty voice.

It was Fleur, looking every inch an ice queen, her skin and her hair pale in the silver moonlight, her ocean-blue eyes as hard as stone as she took in the situation.

"Never mind," she snapped before the two fourth years could answer. "I think I've gotten the gist of it. Let's bring him inside. I know a good Sobering Spell."

They hauled Bastien into the carriage, where he promptly collapsed onto the couch. Sabine bid everyone good night and retreated into her room with an air of relief.

"Are you okay?" Draco asked Fleur as she stood over an insensible Bastien, her hands on her hips. For all her immeasurable beauty, the girl looked tired.

"Fine," said Fleur in a wan tone. "After every party we die. You know how it is."

"No," Draco replied truthfully.

She smirked. "Of course not. You're fourteen." She dug out her wand and muttered an incantation which made Bastien twitch and then straighten up, the glassy daze disappearing from his eyes.

"Fleur?" He stared at her, her name sounding like a prayer as it escaped from his lips.

"You overdid it tonight," she told him so gently it was almost strange.

"I always overdo it," Bastien murmured.

Sensing a private moment, Draco started backing away. They seemed to have already forgotten his presence.

"The last time I was that drunk, I sang to you," Bastien continued, rubbing the back of his neck. "That old Muggle song you like. _Non, je ne regrette rien.__"_

Fleur blinked, surprised. "You remember?"

"Of course." Bastien looked pained. "I remember everything about you."

Draco very much wanted to leave at this point, but there was something about the moment that drew him in. It was the way Fleur and Bastien looked together, the girl in silver and the boy in blue, firelight shifting over their faces in flickering veils of gold and shadow, their bodies not quite touching but geared inexorably towards the other. Was this the sort of thing people got themselves into at seventeen, at eighteen? An unspoken history welled up in the living room, the ghosts from a different kind of war.

"You have to stop this," said Fleur. "You have to let me go."

"I'm trying," Bastien rasped. "You make it sound so easy."

Draco quietly stole out of the carriage. He needed air.

* * *

The rose garden was a maze of ornamental paths and stone statues, bathed in fairy lights and moon-dust. When Hermione arrived at the fountain, her sigh was lost in the ripple of dark water. She really ought to head back in, but after saying goodbye to Viktor she'd been overtaken by restlessness and, without thinking about where she was going, her aimless steps had taken her to this grotto.

"It was a nice party," she said out loud, to herself. "You had fun."

"I didn't," said a voice that she would have known anywhere.

She refused to look at him. "Well, whose fault was that?" she snapped peevishly.

Soft footsteps came up behind her, and then stopped. She could almost see his mirror image in the moonlit water.

"I am…" He cleared his throat. "I don't wish to argue. It's late, and it's done. But if that is the only way we can talk, then- I have some fight left in me, I suppose."

The thing about forgiveness was that it came easier at night, when you were tired and sleepy and everything fell into shadow except for the things that mattered. Hermione closed her eyes, breathing in evening air and roses. You could let the hurt define you, or you could hold on to the good things. They'd both punished themselves enough, hadn't they? He owed her many, many explanations, but they had time to talk, to figure it all out.

But, for now, tonight…

She turned around. He looked ethereal in the dark, all sharp features and marble skin, his black robes silhouetted against wings fluttering in the bushes and stars gleaming in the sky. Seeing him sent an ache into her heart.

"_What did we miss tonight?" _she wanted to ask him. "_What would it have been like?"_

She knew he had no answers for her. The shimmering panels of water were reflected on his face and he looked just as confused about the whole thing as she was.

"I don't want to fight anymore," she admitted, biting her lip.

His silvery eyes softened in relief. He drew closer, and she met him halfway.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked her tentatively.

Hermione hated crying, so she laughed instead. "There's no music."

"I myself cannot sing," he confessed, "but there is something… perhaps… if you trust me?"

She nodded. He carefully placed his hands on her waist; she could feel his fingers trembling through her robes. She looped her arms around his neck and the space between them all but disappeared. They were almost the same height, so he turned his head to the left, his temple resting against hers, his eyelashes brushing across the top of her cheek.

"_O temps, suspends ton vol, et vous, heures propices, suspendez votre course," _murmured Draco, and they began to sway. He wasn't singing, and it was initially awkward to move without music, but soon they caught up to the raindrop rhythm of the poem and Hermione lost herself in the moment. _"Laissez-nous savourer les rapides délices des plus beaux de nos jours."_

She had never thought it could be like this, being held like this, being this close to someone else. Her heart was soaring, skipping beats, and every inch of her skin was being grazed by electric wires. This was new territory, almost frightening in all its wonder. These were the things that her body could feel.

"_Mais je demande en vain quelques moments encore, le temps m'echappe et fuit." _His voice poured into the air like smoke, soft and husky in his native language, offset by the crystalline burble of the fountain. _"Je dis à cette nuit: 'Sois plus lente'; et l'aurore va dissiper la nuit."_

She had only a vague idea of what he was saying, but the words and his tone sounded wistful. She buried her nose into his shoulder, and, in response, his grip tightened around her waist. She felt safe in his arms, like she could fall asleep in them right then and there.

"_Que le vent qui gémit, le roseau qui soupire, que les parfums légers de ton air embaumé…" _He moved his head slightly and his lips pressed a soft, dry kiss to the corner of her mouth. _"Que tout ce qu'on entend, l'on voit ou l'on respire, tout dis: 'ils ont aimé.'"_

The world was moonbeams and fairy lights and water and roses, and, as the stars shone overhead, Draco and Hermione continued swaying to music that only the two of them could hear.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	13. Seas Between Us

**Notes: **Wow, you guys. More than a hundred reviews and favorites, more than two hundred follows. THIS GIVES ME LIFE! Here's a short, fluffy chapter for you all. I apologize for its filler-ish nature, but part of the reason I wrote this fic was to fill in the blanks in the book, and I just really like writing about New Year's Eve, okay. The plot picks up in the next update (also, VALENTINE'S DAY!), but corrections, suggestions, and constructive criticism for this one would be very welcome. ETA: FFN is being weird so I had to upload-delete-upload this a couple of times, I'm so sorry if it messed with your alerts!

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

**Seas Between Us**

* * *

"So, is he your boyfriend now?" asked Parvati.

Hermione shrugged, not even looking up from her desk. It was the last day of 1994 and she was busy writing a New Year's letter to her parents.

Parvati tilted her head. "I think Hermione's trying to be coy. Don't you agree, Lavender?"

"Yeah, but she's not pulling it off too well," the other girl remarked.

An exasperated sigh escaped Hermione's lips. "I'm not being coy-"

"_Trying _to be coy, you mean," Lavender corrected under her breath.

"- I just really don't know," Hermione finished.

Parvati's brow furrowed. "Well, don't you want to find out?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Hermione asked, signing her name with a flourish.

"You ought to have the Relationship Talk with him," said Parvati, with that talent she had to pronounce capital letters that Hermione was secretly trying to mimic. Lavender nodded fervently beside her.

"That won't be necessary." Hermione sealed the letter in an envelope and then stood up. "I'll see you girls later, all right?"

"All right," her roommates echoed, but in the kind of tone that made it clear that the discussion was far from over.

As she made her way to the Owlery, Hermione couldn't help pondering the question that her friends had posed. The days after the Yule Ball had been filled with quiet little moments- his rare and fleeting smiles, his gloved hand finding hers- that warmed her heart even as snow and ice raged through the Hogwarts grounds. She wasn't sure exactly what she and Draco had gotten themselves into, and she found this strange because she was a stickler for labels in all other areas of her life.

It was as if her thoughts had summoned him, because when she turned the corner, there he was, standing in front of a wall lined with portraits, frowning at Sabine as she took pictures of him.

"_Ouistiti!" _Sabine demanded, peering at him through her camera.

"_Non," _Draco replied, sounding a bit peeved. _"C'est stupide."_

Sabine sighed as she adjusted the lens. _"Tu veux faire plaisir à La Belle Dame Sans Merci, n'est-ce pas?"_

Draco opened his mouth to retort, but froze when he saw Hermione walking up to them.

"What's going on?" she asked cheerfully.

Sabine flashed her a conspiratorial grin. "Madame Malfoy wants photographs of her son in Hogwarts."

"Awww," said Hermione, batting her lashes at Draco, who by now was blushing furiously.

"Can you find your way back to the carriage?" he asked Sabine in a tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Draco!" Hermione said reproachfully. He treated her with such unfailing care that it always came as a bit of a surprise when he was rude to other people.

Sabine rolled her eyes. "Don't worry, Hermione. I'm used to it. See you!" She packed up her camera and left them with a lazy wave.

Draco turned his full attention to Hermione. "Where are you going?"

"Off to post a letter to Mum and Dad," she answered. "Do you want to come with me?"

He nodded and they fell into step at a comfortable pace, chatting quietly about schoolwork and friends. His arm brushed hers from time to time, causing sparks to ripple through her skin at the point of contact. Ever since that night in the rose garden, she'd become increasingly aware of his presence. She glanced sideways at him, watching his lips move as he expounded on an interesting new Potions theory, remembering how cool and soft they had been. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him for real.

As soon as that thought seared itself in her mind, she stopped in her tracks. "No!" she said out loud.

"I myself did not believe it at first," said Draco, "but studies have produced consistent results. Adding a clockwise stir _does-"_

"No, no, Draco, it's not that," Hermione interrupted him in a rush. However, when he fixed his gray eyes on her as he patiently waited for her to explain what the real matter was, she found herself recanting her previous statement. "Actually, _yes, _it is. It- it was extremely irresponsible of those first researchers to switch up the stirring, with such volatile ingredients-"

"Oy!" an irritated voice piped up from behind them. "Could the two of you get any more _boring?"_

Draco and Hermione whirled around to see the Weasley twins shaking their heads.

"Here we are," said Fred, "following you around-"

"- Hoping to hear something sappy to tease Hermione with later-" said George.

"-And you're talking about-"

"- Potions! Bleeding _Potions! _I don't believe it, can you, Fred?"

"Not at all. Bit inconsiderate, really-"

"Never knew it was possible to fall asleep while walking, me," said George, sounding absolutely disgusted.

"Come on, George," said Fred, "let's go find some _real _news."

Hermione, who could sometimes get very fed up with the twins' antics, was relieved that an awkward situation had been salvaged- albeit by even more awkwardness- and, so, once Fred and George had walked away, with Draco staring blankly after them in shock, she laughed, grabbed his elbow, and steered him in the direction of the West Tower.

"Remember when they tried to spy on us yesterday?" said Hermione.

Draco smirked. "I thought Jacqueline's hex would discourage them for a while." The twins had shouted "Boo!" from behind a snowman in the mistaken belief that they were ambushing Draco and Hermione, not Jacqueline and a boy from Durmstrang. The results hadn't been pretty, to say the least.

"Nothing ever discourages Fred and George for long," Hermione told him. "Not even reversed knees and tails."

"She let them off easy," he declared. "In my first year, she turned Adrien's hair into snakes. I think that is how his phobia started, actually."

"Your eighth years are terrifying," she remarked as they began to climb up the steps.

"Sabine will disagree with me, but I like them better than the sevenths."

"How come?"

His brow creased, the indication that he was having to think carefully about what English words to use. "The seventh years are…. brittle. Harder. They feel they have much to prove. The eighth years, on the other hand, have already been there and done that, so they are more relaxed."

When they reached the Owlery, a brief look of horrified regret flashed across Draco's sharp features. The large, circular stone room lacked window glass, so the winter gusts blew in with a vengeance. The upper landings were covered in ice.

"My worst nightmare," Draco muttered, wrapping Hermione's Gryffindor scarf more tightly around his neck.

"Mind your step," said Hermione. They cautiously negotiated their way through the straw, droppings, and regurgitated mice skeletons littering the floor as all around them owls hooted and burbled and flapped their wings.

Pigwidgeon came zooming down from the rafters, nuzzling Draco in a flurry of feathers and excited cries. The boy grimaced, catching it in his hands with a Seeker's skill, and held it as far away from his body as possible.

"What," he demanded in an imperious tone that somewhat reminded Hermione of Lucius Malfoy, "is this thing?"

"That's Ron's owl, Pigwidgeon," said Hermione. "I think he likes you."

Draco sniffed. She would have laughed at his predicament, but he looked so much like his father in that moment that she had to fight back a shiver.

One of the school owls obediently held out its leg and waited as Hermione tied her letter to it. After it soared off into the overcast sky, Draco gingerly released Pigwidgeon, who, now that the novelty of a new face had worn off, went bouncing up to the roof, leaving the two teenagers alone once more.

"Do you have curfew later tonight?" Draco asked, wiping his hands on his robes.

"I believe so," Hermione replied. "Why?"

"We are having a New Year's bonfire by the lake," he explained. "I would love if you came, but if it's against the rules…"

"I'm sorry," said Hermione.

His hand tentatively reached for hers. "I shall see you tomorrow, then."

"First thing," she promised.

She knew he was reticent about public displays of affection, but here it was just them and the owls, and so he kissed the back of her hand, his gaze on the sky opening up before them, stretching out into forever at this great height, and the moment was stone and ice and straw and feathers, and her heart soared like it, too, had wings.

* * *

It was half an hour to midnight and, by unspoken agreement, the Gryffindors had begun to gather closer to the windows of the common room, waiting for the traditional display of Weasley fireworks to light up the horizon. In the midst of the idle chatter and games of Exploding Snap, Hermione clutched a mug of hot chocolate to her chest, staring into the red-gold blur of the fireplace.

_You made the right decision, _she told herself firmly. _You can't violate curfew just because of a boy. You spend most of your free time with him, anyway. He'll still be there tomorrow._

Someone called her name. Hermione looked up to see Lavender and Parvati peering at her.

"What is it?" she asked.

Parvati smiled. It was the fondest, most gentle smile Hermione had ever received from a girl her age. "Why are you still here?"

Hermione set the mug on the table, stood up, and marched over to Harry, who was playing chess with Ron.

"Harry, may I borrow your Invisibility Cloak?"

* * *

Madame Maxime waved her wand, replenishing the flutes of champagne her students were holding. They toasted, the glow of the bonfire lighting up their happy faces as lake water rippled in the gloom.

"This is my first New Year's Eve away from home," remarked Cerisse.

"But you're never in Europe for the holidays," her fellow seventh year Étienne Moraud pointed out.

"I meant New York, you dope."

"Aren't you a French citizen?"

Cerise shrugged. "Home is what you carry with you."

Upon hearing those words, an image of Nantes flashed through Draco's mind, golden in the summer, the Loire River full of light. He found himself oddly wistful all of a sudden, and so he moved away from the circle of his schoolmates until he was standing right at the shore of the lake.

His gaze flew up to the silhouette of Hogwarts Castle. He wondered what Hermione was doing now, if she was standing by the window of her common room and looking down at the grounds, wishing for his presence as fervently as he was wishing for hers.

"Boo," said a voice in his ear.

Draco almost screamed. "What the hell-" he began in French, but faltered when he belatedly recognized the voice. "Hermione?"

"Yes, I'm using an Invisibility Cloak."

"I can _see _that," he said pointedly, raising an eyebrow in her general direction, or, at least, where he figured her general direction was.

"Your jokes are getting better," the disembodied voice told him. He could catch a faint whiff of brown sugar and vanilla, and a bit of chocolate as well. "I daren't take the Cloak off. Madame Maxime might notice me."

"You snuck out." Draco couldn't help grinning a little.

She huffed. "Honestly! You don't have to sound so flattered."

"_Dix!" _shouted the students gathered around the bonfire. Draco glanced back to see Bastien and Sumaya distributing sparklers. _"Neuf! Huit! Sept! Six!"_

He felt a slight pressure on his side, like someone had nudged his shoulder. "Hey, Draco."

"_Cinq! Quartre!"_

"Yes, Hermione?"

"_Trois! Deux!"_

"Happy New Year," she whispered, and silky, unseen lips brushed against his cheek.

"_Un!"_

Fireworks blazed in the distance, high above the castle. There were gasps and applause from the Beauxbatons students as pink Catherine wheels, red-and-gold dragons, and silver stars went soaring through the night, explosions of color and smoke, their embers trailing to Earth like glittering rain.

"_Bonne année," _Draco replied to the voice in the dark, to his invisible girl.

And, just like that, it was 1995. Although they had no way of knowing it now, it was only two years before the death of Albus Dumbledore and the fall of the British Ministry. Two years before it began in earnest- the Second Wizarding War.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	14. Smile Upon Me

**Notes: **Here's the fourteenth chapter, just in time for February 14! Happy Valentine's Day! To clarify a few canon points brought up that may not be common knowledge as I don't think they were actually in the books, or they were just mentioned in passing: Dean Thomas' father was killed by Death Eaters, and Susan Bones' Uncle Edgar and his family also died during the first war. This was supposed to be a pretty heavy update, but some humor managed to sneak its way in as well. Corrections, suggestions, and constructive criticism are welcome, as always. Oh, and I also made a mix for this fic, which you can find at my Tumblr. Just add the usual http stuff, replace * with the letter o, and remove the spaces from youarethesentinels . tumblr . c*m / post / 43003139927 / a-primer-for-the-small-weird-loves-mix-one-fic

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

**Smile Upon Me**

* * *

Sumaya was waiting for Draco when he returned to the carriage after having lunch at Hogsmeade with Hermione. The moment he saw the pained look on the eighth-year girl's face, he knew she was the bearer of bad news.

"Malfoy." She fidgeted in her blue robes. "I may have accidentally let slip to my mother that you're kinda sorta seeing a Muggle-born."

His blood went cold. _"What?"_

"I didn't mean it," she said quickly. If he weren't four years younger than she was, she would probably be weeping for forgiveness at his feet, but, such as it was, he was only a lowly fourth. "I just got carried away gossiping. You know how it is, when you miss home-"

"_I," _he gritted out, "do not gossip with _my _mother."

Oh, no. His mother.

He waited on tenterhooks for the rest of the day and all through the night. He flinched every time he saw an owl fly overhead.

"She's not going to send you a Howler," Sabine assured him. "_La Belle Dame Sans Merci _doesn't shout. That would be terribly middle-class."

"Do you think that's what I'm afraid of?" he hissed. His hands were trembling; he stuffed them into his pockets. "No, Gaillard, she is going to be _sarcastic. _She might even get mad enough to be _ironic. _Trust me, I would vastly prefer it if she shouted."

On Valentine's Day, there was still no word from the home-front and Draco had started to relax. Perhaps Sumaya's mother hadn't told Narcissa, after all. He was in such a good mood that he even helped Lascelles decorate the carriage for Cerise, charming red rose petals to trail from the front door to her room.

"How romantic," cooed Sumaya as she passed by the two boys. "I'm sure Cerise will love this."

Sabine, on the other hand, gasped when she walked into the scene. "Oh, sorry," she said when she'd recovered, eyeing the petals. "I thought those were bloodstains."

Lascelles looked at Draco sagely. "There are two kinds of people in the world."

Cerise arrived and showed her gratitude by dragging a happily grinning Lascelles into her room. Sabine and Draco looked at one another.

"Hermione told me that, in Gryffindor House, boys can't enter the girls' wing," said Sabine. "I wonder why Madame Maxime didn't bother with putting enchantments like that on this carriage."

Draco shrugged. It was his private opinion that the _Directrice _was kind of a hippie.

"Speaking of Hermione, what are your plans for Valentine's Day?" Sabine asked.

"She's working through her backlog, and so am I," replied Draco. "I shall see her in the evening, I suppose."

"Wow, Malfoy, you sure know how to woo a girl."

"You're the one who saw a Valentine's Day surprise and thought it was a crime scene." He headed in the direction of the pantry. "Do you want anything?"

"Yes," she called after him. "A real heart!"

He glanced back with a frown. "What?"

"Never mind." She waved him off, muttering about how their friendship would be so much better if he could grasp her cultural references.

While he rummaged through the pantry for something palatable, he heard the fireplace crackle to life, the sound of an incoming Floo. He heard Sabine talking quietly to someone and was at first glad that Madame Gaillard had finally figured out how to use the Network.

However, when he made his way back to the living room, the packet of crisps slid from his suddenly boneless fingers. It wasn't Sabine's mother's head in the fireplace.

"Draco." Narcissa flashed him an arctic smile. "There you are."

"I'm going now," Sabine squeaked. She hurried past Draco, who had to restrain himself from begging her not to leave.

_This must be how the Champions felt when they entered the dragon arena, _he thought as he approached the hearth. Only, he'd take a Hungarian Horntail over Narcissa Malfoy any day of the week.

"Mother." He congratulated himself on how steady and cool his voice sounded. "You look well."

"Better than I feel, I'm afraid." Her golden hair trickled into the flames, but her eyes were like flints of ice. "I have just spoken with Madame Hassan."

"I can explain-" Draco started to say half-heartedly, without having any idea how to explain but knowing that she was going to cut him off.

She didn't disappoint. "There is no need for explanations. You're young. I suppose it was only a matter of time before some pretty little chit- but, anyway, I don't wish to discuss this matter further. You will stop seeing the girl, hmm, _mon trésor?"_

Draco's fists clenched at his sides. "Mother, she's very nice. Surely there's no harm in-"

"In breaking our most sacred traditions?" she continued for him. "In tainting our noble lineage? Need I remind you what the words on the Black family crest are? _Toujours pur, _Draco."

"Oh, yes, we _are _a fine old family, aren't we?" he snapped. _Would you look at that, I guess I'm going to be the sarcastic one in this conversation, after all._

Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean by that?"

She had spoken in English, and he answered her in kind. "Death Eaters!" he found himself shouting, losing his legendary composure in the face of his mother's betrayal, her secrets. "We are a family of _bloody _Death Eaters!" He didn't know how to be angry in his second language, and so he fell back to his first. _"À cause de vous, je suis le fils d'un meurtrier!"_

_Because of you, I am the son of a murderer._

"Don't worry, Mother," he continued, his savage tone causing heads to poke out from bedroom doors, only to beat a hasty retreat when their owners caught sight of _La Belle Dame Sans Merci. _"This is all part of my brilliant plan! I'll catch her off-guard and then I'll kill her and dance in her blood! Your son will live up to your legacy."

He had gone too far. As she absorbed every word of his helpless tirade, Narcissa's lips pressed together until her mouth was a thin white line. By the time he uttered those last few sentences, she started to move. The embers shifted, making way for a neck, shoulders, a torso, until, at last, Narcissa Malfoy rose from the fireplace and stepped into the living room, gaunt and pale and terrible, all frozen features and severe black robes.

"Look what you made me do." Her voice was colder than glaciers, her clipped English voice, wrapping around her native tongue with deadly precision. "I promised myself when I crossed the sea fourteen years ago that I would _never _set foot on British soil again."

"Alice and Frank Longbottom helped you cross!" he screamed at her in rapid French. "And then your sister tortured them until they went stark raving mad! I met their son! And I met Harry Potter, and Susan Bones, and Dean Thomas! I know about the McKinnons, the Prewetts!" He continued to shout the names of the Dark Lord's victims in her face, relishing the way each one made her flinch. "You kept it from me, but I know everything now! I know your ghosts. _I know everything!"_

His mother was strangely blurry. He blinked, and tears began to stream down his cheeks. His chest heaved as if his outburst had taken it by surprise.

"Not everything," whispered Narcissa. "Not yet."

She conjured a glass vial out of thin air and then drew out a silvery trail of memories from her head, sealing it into the container, which she handed to him. Wordlessly, he slipped it into his pocket. Mother and son regarded each other warily while, all around them, phantom hands tugged at the frayed edges of a carefully-ordered world beginning to fall apart.

"You will forgive me, Draco," said Narcissa, still every inch the ice queen, making his insides crawl from the shame of losing his temper, "for trying to keep to the old ways. I went against them but once, and that was for you. Only for you." She tilted her head in the direction of the vial in his pocket. "Perhaps, once you see those memories, you will understand."

She turned away and disappeared back through the Floo, her bearing rigid, proud until the very end. Any other child would have been shocked at such an abrupt goodbye from a parent they hadn't seen in months, but Draco had been expecting it. You had to know when to cut your losses and walk away. That was what it meant to be pure-blood.

* * *

He had never been a fan of the castle's topsy-turvy interior design, but, today, it was so much worse than usual. Heart-shaped confetti drifted from the rafters, and the air was heavy with the cloying scent of lurid pink floral bouquets. Surly-looking dwarves were walking around dressed as card-carrying cupids, tackling students to present them with their singing Valentines.

"Why?" Draco heard a girl ask her friend as he passed by them on his way to Dumbledore's office. "Why do we do this?"

"Blame Lockhart," her friend replied.

Draco had no idea who Lockwart- or Lockhart, or whatever- was, and, for some reason, this gave him an odd, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. This school was made up of stories he didn't know, and he couldn't help wondering what his life would have been like if he'd gone _here _instead of Beauxbatons, if Narcissa hadn't left Lucius, if she'd stayed in England.

Would he have accepted his father's legacy, or even embraced it?

There was a commotion on the next landing. A bunch of students were gathered around Fred and George, who were carrying armfuls of little boxes decorated with pink ribbons.

"Draco!" Hermione waved him over and he joined her, Harry, and Ron. "You look terrible. What's the matter?"

The things he'd said about her in the carriage were still fresh in his mind, so he avoided her eyes. "I woke up on the wrong side of the bed."

"Was Bastien 'singing' again?" she asked sympathetically, the quotation marks in her tone slipping effortlessly around the word _singing. _

"Yes," he lied, and then changed the subject. "What are those boxes?"

"Oh, those." Hermione rolled her eyes. "It's the twins' latest product. They're supposed to Transfigure into bouquets or chocolates when the ribbon's untied, but, so far, it's not exactly working out."

"Yeah," said Harry. "The spell's Transfiguring the _people _holding the boxes."

"Into flowers and chocolates?" Draco was horrified. It was a Valentine's Day nightmare.

"No," said Hermione. "Into _animals." _She gestured to a sniffling Lavender, who was being comforted by Parvati. "Lavender just got done being turned into a chipmunk."

Fred tapped one of the boxes with his wand, muttering a few adjustments. "This ought to fix it," he told George.

George nodded. He pulled the ribbon loose and tossed the box to the nearest person, who happened to be Draco.

Draco was a Seeker, and it was therefore ingrained into his bones to catch small things that flew at his face.

There was a flash of light.

* * *

Hermione stared down in blank shock at the white ferret that used to be Draco.

Ron was doubled over in rather more laughter than the situation warranted. Harry was blinking, looking lost. Fred and George exchanged glances, and then ran away.

Most of the other students scattered as well. They were unsure what penalty lay in store for magically assaulting a delegate from another school, but they obviously didn't want to stick around to find out.

Draco's now beady black eyes skittered all over the hallway. Enraged whines emerged from his mouth, and he scurried over to Hermione as a white blur. She automatically scooped him up into her arms; he climbed onto her shoulders, his sleek and furry body winding around her neck, chattering in her ear in panic.

"This- this is," Ron gasped out, tears of mirth leaking down his freckled cheeks, "the best thing I've seen today."

"It wears off," Harry said quickly. "Put him down, Hermione. Now."

She set Draco back on the floor, holding him at arms' length as his paws tried to grab onto her again. "Five, four," she chanted, "three, two…"

There was another flash.

Back to normal, Draco lay with legs sprawled out on the floor, all rumpled blue robes and disheveled blond hair. His face was paler than ever.

Much to Hermione's horror, a giggle escaped from her lips, like a hiccup. She clapped her hands over her mouth, but it was too late. Her shoulders shook with stifled laughter. Even Harry began to grin.

"_What kind of school is this?" _Draco hissed, his accent more pronounced than usual. In that moment he looked like Lucius after the sock incident of 1993, and, for once, the similarity made Hermione laugh even harder.

* * *

But her humor faded much later as she and Draco stood outside Dumbledore's office, apprehensively eyeing the stone gargoyle that stood guard at the entrance. Draco held the vial of his mother's memories in his hand, gripping it so tightly that Hermione was almost afraid it would shatter in his palm.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked her in a soft, quiet voice.

Unspoken words hung in the air: _Do you really want to see the past, my pain? Will you carry the burden of someone else's life?_

"Yes," said Hermione firmly, swallowing the knot in her throat. _I will be with you. _"Let's go talk to ghosts."

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	15. Those Who Always Loved You

**Notes: **To reviewer ThE-Pr3ttY-LIgHtS, I'm so sorry I just read your request to translate the poem from Chapter 12! It goes something like this: "Time, suspend your flight, and propitious hours, stop your course. Let us savor the rapid delights of our most beautiful days. I ask in vain for a few more moments, but time escapes from me. I say to this night: Go slow. But the dawn will dispel it. Let the moan of the wind, the sighing of the reeds, the light perfumes of your fragrant air, let everything we hear or see or breathe all say: They were in love." Argh well I wasn't able to do that poem justice, but I hope that makes things clearer! So here's the fifteenth chapter, guys. I hope you are all still with me, because I've plotted it out and there's, like, only five chapters left to go. Corrections, suggestions, and constructive criticism are very welcome.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Those Who Always Loved You**

* * *

Dumbledore welcomed them into his office cordially, but the moment he caught sight of the silver-filled vial in Draco's hand, the sparkle ebbed from his blue eyes and his smile turned grave. Without another word, he directed them to the Pensieve, took the vial from Draco, and uncorked Narcissa's memories. For a while, all three of them just stood there, solemnly regarding the swirling surface.

"There are things that cannot be undone, Draco," the Headmaster of Hogwarts said softly. "There are stories that cannot be unlearned."

Draco looked like a boy possessed. His cheeks were wan and he was breathing harshly. "I will learn them." His voice sounded small, frightfully young, but determined, nonetheless. Hermione thought her heart would burst with fierce pride. "I will learn them," he repeated, like a prayer. "And I will make my own endings."

His hand reached out blindly and found hers. She squeezed back. This action did not go unnoticed by Dumbledore, whose brow creased in surprise, and then softened in fond realization.

"Ready?" Hermione asked.

Draco nodded. Together, they fell into the past.

* * *

Three hooded figures in a forest at night, two of them side by side, facing the third with wands out.

"Would you really hex a pregnant woman, cousin?" Narcissa asked, her voice emerging cold and smooth as it drifted like snow over the dew-stained leaves.

One of the armed figures removed his hood. Moonlight shone on the face of a younger Sirius Black, handsome and aristocratic, his eyes yet to bear the shadows of Azkaban. "I come in good faith, Narcissa." He even sounded more youthful, boyish, almost, his drawl more pronounced. "I am here because you swore by our stars."

"I meant it," she replied. "I want to talk to Dumbledore."

"Why?"

"I defect."

Sirius laughed harshly. "Do you really expect me to believe that? _You, _the consummate mascot for Death Eater housewives? At least give me a reason. Tell me all the things you should have said the night I ran away."

"Impertinent, as always," sniffed Narcissa. "I asked you to bring a third party because we need a Bonder, because I want to show you that I am sincere. I am prepared to make the Unbreakable Vow."

Sirius looked conflicted for several long moments, various decisions playing out across his features. Finally, he nodded. He turned to his companion, who had remained silent thus far.

"Okay, Prongs," said Sirius, "let's do this."

* * *

Three figures on the docks, dressed in Muggle clothes, the ship rising high above the waterline.

"This is where we leave you," said Alice Longbottom, "… Mrs. Nessie Mallow." She turned to her husband with a sour look on her face. _"Nessie Mallow, _Frank? Really?"

Frank threw up his hands in exasperation. This was obviously a familiar topic. "I was pressed for time!"

Unseen, Hermione observed Narcissa, who was trying not to fidget in her Muggle dress. Draco's mother was beautiful in the manner of glaciers and swans. Draco looked like Lucius, but it was obvious he'd gotten his aloof, genteel manner from this almost ethereally pale woman.

"Thank you," Narcissa said to the Longbottoms. Her words sounded a bit stiff, but sincere, nonetheless. "Please take care of yourselves."

Alice patted her arm, grinning. "Don't worry about us. Frank and I, we're hard to catch and even harder to kill."

"Time to go, Nessie," said Frank, checking his watch. "Remember everything we told you. Keep your head down and… have a good life."

Apprehension flickered in Narcissa's wintry eyes as she glanced at the ship. She nodded, as if to herself, and then turned her gaze back to the Aurors and murmured something in another language. Alice looked surprised for a moment, but she collected herself and responded in kind.

"Oh," Draco said softly. "They don't do that much anymore."

"What was that?" Hermione asked him.

"Well wishes, you could say. Old Latin prayers of protection," he replied. "From one pure-blood to another."

* * *

The scene changed. This time Narcissa was in a small flat and a baby was in a crib. Despite the seriousness of the moment, Hermione couldn't help cooing down at a tiny Draco, white and pink all over, with just a thatch of blond hair on his head and silvery eyes too big for his pointed little face.

"Please stop," muttered the version of him that was not a memory. "This is embarrassing."

"You were so quiet!" Hermione exclaimed. "When I was a baby, Mum told me I cried all the time. It drove her and Dad absolutely mad-"

The infant stuck its thumb into its mouth. Narcissa reached down and firmly brought the offending digit back to her son's side.

"None of that," she chided. "You are a Malfoy."

"Brrr." Hermione shivered.

Draco smirked. "Welcome to my world."

"Yes, you are a Malfoy," Narcissa continued, this time in a voice no more than a whisper, barely audible over the rain that fell hard against the windows. "Your father is not a good man, but _you are a Malfoy. _That is all I can give you, for now. That is all you and I can keep."

There was a ponderous knock on the door. Narcissa peered through the peephole; whoever she saw there made her stiffen abruptly.

"How did you find me?" she asked the person behind the door.

"You are my wife," replied a familiar oily voice that sent a prickle down Hermione's spine. "Did you not think I would scour the ends of the Earth until I caught a trace of your whereabouts? Let me in, Narcissa. The Dark Lord is dead. I swear this is true. I swear by the dragons. Let me in."

Narcissa unfastened the bolt. A cry of protest left Hermione's lips, which Draco quelled with a sharp glance.

"He swore by our coat of arms," he told her. "That is… almost like the Unbreakable Vow. Almost."

Lucius entered the room, closing the door with none of the sinuous grace that Hermione associated with him. He looked like he had been through hell and back, his golden hair unkempt, bags under his eyes.

Draco went paler than ever as he stared at the man, fists clenched, a muscle ticking along his jaw. It hit Hermione like a jolt that this was the first time he'd ever seen his father.

"The war is over, Narcissa," Lucius announced. "You will return with me to England immediately."

Narcissa shook her head. "I am not going anywhere with you. Ever again."

Lucius swallowed. His gaze fell to the crib. He took a step towards it, but Narcissa blocked his path with one deliberate movement. He raised his cane, as if in surrender.

There was an unspoken conversation going on in that room. Hermione was used to loud Gryffindor arguments, all raised voices and sweeping angry gestures. This was an entirely different kind, emotions conveyed through frozen glares, through facial tics, a fight that could only be conducted by people who had been brought up to not lay themselves bare. And, the whole time, Draco leaned forward intently, as if he understood every word.

Hermione felt lost and excluded. This was not her world. This was pure-blood.

Finally, Lucius spoke up. "What is the child's name?"

"Draco," Narcissa answered, and his hand gripped the cane tighter.

"This dingy flat is beneath you. You will move to our summer house in the Loire Valley. I shall send you an allowance every month, until you choose to return."

"I do not require your assistance," she coolly stated.

He raised an eyebrow. "You would raise our son in these circumstances?"

"Circumstances that are not of my own making," she reminded him, letting the barb sink deep down, piercing through skin.

He shook his head. "You chose this. You left me. I have not been a good husband, that I freely admit. But allow me to be a father. Raise our son without my presence, if you must, but give him the life he would have known."

Narcissa glanced back at the baby in the crib. Something in her eyes softened, and she inclined her head in silent acceptance.

"I will make the arrangements," Lucius declared quietly, and she nodded again.

He turned to leave. One hand was already on the door, but he looked back.

"Narcissa, please," he said, into the rain and the wood, and although Hermione was as Muggle-born as they came, she thought she could catch, beneath that aristocratic drawl, the thickened burr of heartbreak.

"Goodbye, Lucius," Narcissa stoically replied.

His lip curled. The door opened again, and Draco's father walked out of his life for good.

"_Reviens-moi," _Draco whispered. He looked ashamed the moment he realized what he had just said.

* * *

And then Draco and Hermione went further back into time, and further forward, the memories now an almost incoherent jumble. A sixteen-year-old boy approached a girl from across a ballroom, bearing two flutes of sparkling champagne and a handsome smirk. An older Lucius laughed, covered in blood, surrounded by flames and corpses. An older Narcissa bit down on a handkerchief as her child fell into a Muggle midwife's hands. The war, the ocean, the halls of Hogwarts filled with the young and laughing faces of those long dead. Lucius holding out a diamond ring in a garden of white roses, Lucius drawing back his sleeve to reveal the Dark Mark. The war, the ocean, the Loire Valley in the afternoon light.

"_Je n'en peux plus," _Draco was muttering to himself. _"Ça suffit, je n'en peux plus…"_

As if the universe had heard the tense pleas, as if it had taken pity on a young boy, the memories rolled to a stop, and the Pensieve spat them out blinking in the light of the present day that streamed through the windows of Dumbledore's office.

Although he remained otherwise composed, Draco's hands were shaking. Hermione tried to reach out for them, but he shied away, choosing to slip them into his pockets instead.

Sometimes, the pain was too much to share. Sometimes, there were burdens that had to be carried alone, or, at least, until you could make sense out of them.

Dumbledore regarded the two teenagers solemnly. "We tried to make a better world," he said in an old, soft voice. "We tried to make it so you would walk in light, always. But it's much too soon, isn't it? And you… you are both still so young."

Draco nodded absent-mindedly, as if he hadn't heard a word. He murmured polite excuses and walked out of the office. Hermione made to follow him, but was stopped by her Headmaster at the last second.

"Miss Granger."

"Yes, Professor?"

Dumbledore sighed. "I must admit that this is a rather unexpected friendship. However, it may just be what he needs right now. You will take care of him, won't you?"

Biting her lip, Hermione nodded.

* * *

She was uncharacteristically quiet as they made their way to the lake. Draco was used to her nagging at Harry and Ron, so he wondered why she never did the same to him. He wanted to ask her about this, but he didn't know how to make the question come out right in English.

Some distant part of him was keenly aware of the fact that he was focusing on Hermione's lack of reaction because he didn't want to think about the memories he had just witnessed. It had cut him to the core, seeing his father in all the various guises of the years. When he was a child, he'd often imagined what it would be like if his parents reconciled, but after that _Daily Prophet _article, he had been determined to never meet the man if he could help it.

Which was why it had come as such a huge shock to him when he told the retreating memory of his father _Come back, _the words escaping before he could stifle them.

_Am I really that much of a pure-blood? _he asked himself miserably. Was the call of kin so strong that it blinded him to grievous faults? One look at the man, and all Draco's hatred and resentment had… not vanished, not exactly. But they had been pushed to the background by a strange combination of curiosity and sadness.

_How could you do it? _Draco lifted his gaze to the gray sky as if he hoped for some kind of answer. _How could you love us enough to support us, and yet hate other people enough to kill them?_

The grounds were covered with the last of the February snows. Since Draco's eyes were trained upwards, he wasn't looking where he was going. When Hermione cried, "Watch out!" it was already too late.

Draco of the Noble and Most Ancient Houses of Black and Malfoy walked into a snowman.

As he spat icy slush out of his mouth, he was conscious of several outraged French expletives being hurled in his direction. His schoolmates gathered around him and Hermione in a wide circle.

"Do you have any idea," Sabine gritted out, "how hard we worked on that, how we froze our butts off? Now look at it!" She gestured angrily to the pitiful crushed remains of what had once been a life-sized snowman.

Bastien held up a threatening snowball in his mittened hand, an action mimicked by the other Beauxbatons students. "The penalty for brooding," he announced, "is death!"

"Now wait just a minute!" Hermione stepped protectively in front of Draco. "It was an accident!"

"Move away, Hermione," said Adrien in a terse voice.

She lifted her chin. "If you want to attack him, you'll have to go through me first!"

Sabine shrugged. "Suit yourself."

And then snowballs were being flung at them from all directions, and Draco was instinctively gathering Hermione in his arms, trying to shield her from the onslaught, but it was no use. Wet slush splattered his robes, her hair, their feet. She was shrieking, breathless with laughter and indignation, her eyelashes tickling his cheeks, and all around him, his friends were laughing, too, and the past was a vile and terrible shadow but the overcast present seemed to be suffused with its own kind of light, the blinding whiteness of a fading winter and the warmth of a pretty girl's grin. In the midst of swirling snowflakes and projectiles of ice and slush and his schoolmates' teasing jeers, Draco held Hermione close, and he found himself smiling into her hair.

_Let me have this, _he bargained silently with the as-yet unknowable future. _Let me have this moment. _His eyesight was blurry with cold and wet debris, so that all he could see were a circle of shining faces- hers and his friends'. _Let me have these people. Let me keep them always._

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	16. What the Water Gave Me

**Notes: **Thank you, as always, for the feedback and the support! And I hope you guys like this chapter. Please don't hesitate to leave a review because that will really motivate me to burn through the last leg of the fic... yeah, I tend to mix metaphors when I get sleepy, but you all know what I mean. Also, I can't believe it took me this long to get to the Second Task. Anyway, corrections, suggestions, and constructive criticism are very welcome!

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

**What the Water Gave Me**

* * *

"So is Hermione your girlfriend now?" asked Sabine in the stillness of the carriage's living room.

Draco frowned down at his homework. "I don't know."

"Have you asked her?"

"Regarding what?"

He only barely managed to dodge the quill she hurled at him. "What was that for?" he demanded, straightening up.

"You piss me off," she complained. She Summoned the quill back into her palm and they once more resumed work on their respective essays.

After a while, Draco affixed a period onto his last sentence. "Why do I piss you off?"

"Because you are an obtuse little boy who likes making things more complicated than they should be," Sabine promptly replied. "Just _ask _her to be your girlfriend, you moron."

"We're leaving soon," Draco remarked. "Less than four months."

"So you're going to ask her in a letter, when we're back in France? She might say no. These things always turn out better in person."

He sighed. "Gaillard."

"Malfoy."

He flinched at the name, this reminder of his father. Sabine must have noticed, because she abruptly dropped her combative stance.

"You could have told me, you know," she said in quiet tones, not meeting his eyes. "About your family. I mean, I thought it was kind of suspicious that I never saw your dad, but… We're best friends, okay? I don't want to be sappy, but we are. You should have told me."

This was the closest she had come to acknowledging that she had overheard his fight with his mother. Most of the other Beauxbatons students had, of course, but they were all taking great care not to mention it to him.

Draco swallowed the knot in his throat, glancing at her bent head, her auburn curls grazing against the parchment she was scribbling on. Something about her had changed over the years. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but she was becoming more real to him, less an assemblage of missing front teeth and knee scars, more of an actual person, who had been there for him through thick and thin.

They were growing up. Draco realized that now, as the last of the February sleet began to melt into the slowly unfolding arms of March. He wondered if he, too, had changed in Sabine's eyes, if she was disappointed by the kind of person he'd turned into, so long after the day she first sat next to him in class.

"I am a very private person," he finally said. "You know me. I keep my secrets. This year, I realized that some secrets have a tendency to be dragged into the light. The _Prophet _article, mine and Mother's argument… that was not how you should have found out. I apologize."

Her head snapped up and she gaped at him in surprise, and he knew why. He would never have said anything that earnest, that honest in the time before. He was actually a bit startled, himself. He prayed that she wouldn't call him out on this, make this any more uncomfortable than it already was, but he needn't have worried. She had known him for so long; she knew exactly what he needed.

"What do they put in the water here?" she muttered, shaking her head to herself as she went back to writing. But a smile played at the corner of her lips, and maybe Draco was kind of smiling back, too.

* * *

That afternoon, Fleur's family dropped by the carriage. It was oddly sweet, how the usually acerbic girl seemed beside herself with joy as she toured her mother and her sister around, her hand absentmindedly stroking Gabrielle's blonde hair with tenderness.

Draco and Sabine noticed Bastien surreptitiously eyeing the scene. Sabine cleared her throat. "How are you holding up, Auclair?" she asked in a low voice.

"I'm fine," said Bastien. "It's just that… she's not like this all the time. So it's nice to see. That's all." And then he remained quiet for the rest of the day, not saying a word all throughout dinner and until they were stretched out on their respective beds, back in their rooms.

"You should tell Hermione how you feel," Bastien remarked to the ceiling.

Panicking, Draco glanced around the room, but the other boys were already fast asleep. "This is a surprising change of heart," he commented.

"I," said Bastien with a wry, sloping grin, "am trying to change. There are some things that cannot happen. But the things that _can, _well, you should hold on to them."

The other boy could only raise an eyebrow. Maybe they really _were _putting something in the water here. He resolved to drink only pumpkin juice from now on.

"How _do _you feel?" Bastien suddenly asked. "About her."

It was by a stroke of good fortune that Draco was saved from having to reply to this very personal question. One of the Hogwarts owls flew in through the open window and dropped a note on his stomach. He opened it and recognized Hermione's handwriting.

_Something will happen tomorrow. Do not worry. I cannot stress this enough. I will be fine._

Draco scowled. What was that supposed to mean?

* * *

He found out the next morning, during the Second Task. He was in the stands with the audience, and Ron and Hermione were missing, and people were saying they were down in the lake with the merfolk…

"She's going to be all right," said Sabine. "She told you so herself. Besides, the tournament officials will get sued if they let anything happen to kids!"

"But Melusine's people-" Draco started to say.

"The merfolk here are not Melusine's people," interrupted Sabine. "This is not the Mediterranean. We are in Scotland."

"I know that," he mumbled.

"Are you… are you biting your nails?" she asked, peering at him.

"No," Draco said, quickly whipping his hand from his mouth. He tried jotting down notes to distract himself, but it was in vain. He couldn't concentrate. Finally, he gave up and just stared down at the dark blue surface of the lake, which was as still as glass and deeper than shadows.

Fleur was the first to be pulled out; she was almost hysterical, shouting for her sister.

"I told her she should have practiced more," Cerise muttered under her breath. "But what can you do, Fleur hates the water."

It made sense to Draco, in a way. Veela were creatures of land and air and flame.

"Please, please just don't let her start hurling fireballs," said Adrien.

The Champions had been given only one hour, but it seemed like an eternity. Cedric emerged with Cho in tow, and his supporters erupted into cheers. Draco was beside himself with worry now. Ron wasn't connected to any of the Champions aside from Harry, so that meant that Hermione's retrieval fell to Krum. Draco remembered all the times he'd seen Krum dive into the lake; the other boy seemed to be a good swimmer, but could he hold up against grindylows and mer-people and whatever else was down there in the depths?

_This is so stupid, _grumbled the part of Draco that would always be proud and guarded no matter what. _This is why you shouldn't care so much about people. Look at you. You're a mess. _These were horrible thoughts, but he couldn't suppress them, couldn't make them go away. Before this term had started, he had only ever concerned himself with his mother and Sabine. But now he'd discovered that the world was so much bigger than he'd imagined, that it was made up of complicated people like Fleur and Bastien and Hermione, and his emotions were all tangled up in theirs and it was uncomfortable and it _hurt._

Finally, Krum resurfaced with Hermione, and Draco almost collapsed in relief. He wanted to rush over to her, as she was brought back to consciousness and wrapped in warm blankets. He wanted to push his way through the crowds and punch each of the tournament officials in the face- and maybe Krum, too, wipe that foolish grin off his face. He wanted to gather her in his arms and never let her go.

But he couldn't, could he?

He had no right. He wasn't her… anything.

At least not officially.

_You should hold on to the things that can happen._

He was going to ask her, Draco decided as he sat there in the bleachers, his hands curling into fists, gazing at the faraway blur of Hermione's chestnut hair by the lakeside, blazing in the morning light. He was going to ask her to be his girlfriend.

* * *

Bastien was a bit disgruntled by Fleur joining Harry Potter's fan club, and he made no secret of this as they walked back to the Beauxbatons carriage, to Hermione's never-ending amusement. When Sabine tilted her head pointedly in Hermione's direction, a gesture that meant _Don't complain about someone in the company of that someone's friend,_ Bastien switched to griping in French, which only made Draco tilt _his _head, in a gesture that undoubtedly meant, _Don't speak a language in the company of someone who can't understand that language._

Hermione didn't think she'd ever be able to get over these students and their manners.

Sabine and Bastien went inside the carriage, leaving Hermione alone with Draco, who slipped a hand into his pocket and offered, "Shall I walk you back to the castle?"

"I'd rather stay here for a while," said Hermione, "if you don't mind."

"Not at all."

They smiled tentatively at each other, and then sat side by side on the carriage's front stoop. She rubbed her arms briskly, still a bit cold from the lake water, and she glanced at his sharp profile. There was something she needed to get off her chest.

"Would it-" she began.

"Would you-" he said at the same time.

Hermione laughed as the tips of Draco's ears turned pink. "Go ahead."

"No," he said courteously. "Ladies first."

"Would it…" Hermione trailed off, and then sighed. "Would it make me a bad person if I said that I'm a little bit hurt, that it was Ron whom Harry pulled from the lake, and not me?"

Draco didn't respond immediately, so she continued talking. "I'm the odd one out. They've been friends longer, and they're both boys, and there's always been this… boundary they're on the other side of, a boundary that I can never seem to cross. I know Harry considers me one of his best friends, but I also know I'll always be second best to Ron. And if there's one thing I hate, it's being second best." She tried to grin at him, to pass it off as a lighthearted joke, but he was completely still, not looking at her but listening to her with a sincere intensity that showed how seriously he was taking in every word from her mouth. "I just can't help but think, if it really came down to it, if it was a matter of life and death, and the choice was between me and Ron… Who would Harry pick?"

Draco didn't say anything for a while, and Hermione began to feel anxious. She wondered if perhaps she was being unfair by burdening him with her doubts so soon after he'd witnessed his mother's memories in the Pensieve. Now that she thought about it, her problems seemed so small and petty in comparison to the tortured past that had brought him into the world. She was just about to apologize, to tell him not to mind her issues, when he spoke up.

"Harry Potter is the Boy Who Lived," Draco said slowly, his pale brow creasing as he arranged his thoughts in English. "He defeated the Dark Lord. He has done impossible things. I do not know him very well, but I think… If faced with that decision, he will make it so that he will not have to decide. He will find a way to choose you both, even if he has to stare down death all over again."

Her fears hadn't been completely allayed, but her heart lightened somewhat. She closed her hand over his. "Thanks for the diplomatic answer," she quipped. "Have you considered a career in international relations?"

He smirked. "I am not very at ease in other countries."

She pretended to be offended. "Oh, well, thanks-"

"But Great Britain," he continued, his smirk turning into the beginnings of a full-fledged grin, "Great Britain, I think I can like."

Draco overturned his palm so that he could lace his fingers through the gaps between hers. _I will never get used to this, _Hermione thought, _to the simple and exhilarating joy of holding hands. And I don't want to get used to it. I want it to be new, always._

"Speaking for myself," Draco said, his voice low, "I would- I would choose you-"

Hermione stilled, because she was a smart girl and she knew that some moments were more important than others. This particular one was taking the cake, with that solemn expression in his gray eyes, the tender crook of his mouth.

"What were you going to ask me earlier?" she prompted him when it seemed like he was at a loss for words.

Before Draco could reply, however, a shadow fell over them, a tall robed figure blocking out the sunlight. The two students looked up.

It was Lucius Malfoy.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	17. Rain King

**Notes: **Just a quick update because I have some school stuff going on! I hope I am forgiven for last chapter's cliffhanger! Oh and the amazingly talented hitsukarinluver at Hawthorn & Vine made fan-art of the snowball fight scene! You can see it at my Tumblr ( youarethesentinels . tumblr . c*m / post / 45033559237 / let-me-have-these-people-let-me-keep-them ). Only three more chapters left to go! And, yes, to answer a question some have asked, there will be a sequel. Two, in fact :)

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

**Rain King**

* * *

Draco had imagined this confrontation a hundred times. He'd thought he would fling icy barbs or even forget himself as much as to shout, bury his father in fourteen years' worth of fury and recrimination, but he had never once imagined that it would be like this, him blinking up into grey eyes that were eerily similar to his, words dying in his throat as the mid-morning sun beat down.

He expected Lucius to sneer at Hermione. Instead, the older man refused to acknowledge the girl's presence. _"Mon fils," _he said, _"il faut qu'on se parle."_

And the first words Draco ever spoke to his father were, "English, if you please."

Lucius made a small _tch _of irritation. "Miss Granger, if you would be so _kind_ as to allow us a little bit of privacy-"

"She stays," said Draco in an implacable tone.

"Draco," Hermione murmured, "this is between you and him. I'll see you later." She squeezed his hand one last time, a gesture of comfort that also managed to be a warning not to do anything stupid. Then she stood up and shouldered past Lucius on her way back to the castle.

Lucius dusted off the spot on his robes that had come into contact with her. "Ill-mannered chit," he drawled.

"How dare you," Draco whispered savagely, switching back to French now that they were alone. "You have no right to talk about her like that. Not after everything you've done."

"You will stand when you address me." The words slipped out in English, and, in a burst of rebellion, Draco decided to be rude.

"_Pourquoi?" _He was employing all of Narcissa's tricks now, the haughtiness, the cold disdain. _"Je ne suis pas ton fils."_

_Ton, _not _votre. _Among pure-bloods, this bordered on unforgivable. Lucius gripped his cane tighter, his complexion losing what little color it had in the first place. "I have just returned from India," he said stiffly after a few seconds had passed. "Had I been aware of the _Prophet _article beforehand, I would have come sooner." His French was impeccable, containing barely a trace of an accent.

"Why _did _you come?" Draco asked.

Lucius gazed down at him in disbelief, as if he were being obtuse. "I wanted to see you."

"Well, now you have," said Draco stubbornly. _See that I am fine. See that I grew up without you, and I am all the better for it. _"So you may go, if you wish."

"I never wished to leave in the first place," Lucius replied in a quieter tone.

"Mother did the leaving," Draco corrected him. "And I am grateful every day for that." He was not going to think about it, he was not going to think about the knot in his chest when he watched his father walk out of that little apartment in Cherbourg. He was not going to think about the way he'd begged the man's retreating form, _"Reviens-moi."_

_Revenir, _to return. _Come back to me._

"I am unaware as to what Narcissa has told you," Lucius began, "but it is because of me that you are clothed and fed-"

"I know that," Draco interrupted. "I know everything. But the Malfoy gold cannot atone for your sins."

"Would you rather I be in Azkaban, then?" Lucius asked silkily. "Would you rather bear the name of a convict?"

The boy shrugged. "I already bear the name of a murderer. It's not that far a leap."

They were silent for a while, holding each other's stare. And for all that Draco renounced his father, he also knew that he was peering into a distant mirror. He would look like this, thirty years from now. It was inevitable. He was seized by the sudden, irrational urge to claw at his own face, to disfigure himself beyond all recognition. He did not want to resemble the man who had laughed amidst the corpses and fire. He did not want any part of it.

Lucius cleared his throat. "Your… association with the Mud- the Muggleborn-"

"-Is not a subject for discussion-"

"-Is an insult to your lineage!" Lucius hissed, a muscle ticking along his jaw. "An insult to your House!"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "And what House is that?"

Lucius' demeanor shifted. He shook himself, as if shaking away cobwebs, looking haunted and old. "Sometimes I forget," he admitted. "I… have often thought about what it would be like to raise you. In my dreams, you are Slytherin."

Draco glanced away. "We are done here."

At first, it seemed like Lucius was about to argue, but, finally, he nodded curtly. He took several steps away from the carriage, and then turned back and said, in solemn tones, "Tell your mother I miss her."

In another life, Draco would have reached out, would have relented. In another life, this scene would not be happening in the first place. He remained where he was on the carriage stoops and watched his father walk away under an empty, silver blue sky.

* * *

Draco's editor-in-chief was sitting by herself in the living room, surrounded by a mountain of paperwork, when he stumbled in.

"There you are," said Jacqueline briskly. "I need you to write a short blurb with tournament news, so we can keep readers back home updated-" She broke off as she got a good look at him. "Is everything okay?"

Draco started to cry. It was horrifying and embarrassing, but the tightness in his lungs could no longer be held at bay. Hot tears leaked from his eyes and he dropped to the floor, his shoulders heaving, strangled wails ripping themselves loose from his throat. Falling to pieces in front of Jacqueline Sarkozy- this was yet another indignity he had to endure, in this long and terrible semester of heartache and unwelcome changes.

The eighth-year girl put her quill down and approached him gingerly. They called her _La Dame de fer _behind her back, but her touch was surprisingly gentle as she knelt beside Draco and patted his arm in a soothing gesture.

"I have a brother your age- he's not magic, he goes to public school," she murmured. "But he's your age, and I forget that, sometimes. You act so mature. It slips my mind that you're fourteen. You're just a kid, aren't you? Hard to crack, but just a kid."

_I might have had a sister, _Draco thought. _If my family had stayed together, if Voldemort had never existed- who knows? _He imagined it then, a sister or a brother, a sibling who would have held him like this and understood what he was going through. He realized now, more than ever, that his was a lonely life.

He tried to apologize to Jacqueline for this breakdown, this breach of decorum, but his grief robbed him of the capacity to form words. He could not speak, and so he wept.

* * *

Draco wasn't present at the Great Hall for supper that night, or for breakfast the next morning. Hermione's owls went unanswered. She finally tracked him down after class, when she pounded on the door of the Beauxbatons carriage and Adrien let her in.

"Good you are here," he said in heavily accented English, smiling at her. "Maybe you will cheer him up, yes?"

Draco and Sabine were on the couch, heads barely turning at Hermione's approach. Adrien positioned himself on the couch opposite them, and Hermione followed his lead. There was an awkward silence. She had no idea what to say. "I'm sorry your father's a vile and evil man" didn't seem particularly appropriate, no matter how true it was.

Sabine finally spoke up. "Do you want to play Monopoly?" she asked in a falsely chipper tone, glancing at Adrien and Hermione in desperation.

Adrien clapped his hands together eagerly. "Great idea!" he barked. "I do not know what that is, but great idea!"

"Um…" Hermione stared at Draco, who in turn was staring at the floor. "I'm not sure if-"

"Oh, it will be fun!" Sabine leapt to her feet. "I'll just go get it." She disappeared into her room and came back a few minutes later with the box. As the two girls set up the board, Draco started showing signs of life.

"That's a Muggle game," he said woodenly.

Sabine grinned at him. "Exactly."

Needless to say, several friendships came close to being destroyed that afternoon.

* * *

Draco was smirking as he walked Hermione back to the castle, with dusk setting in over the lake and window lights glowing in the distance.

"I don't understand why you're upset," he told her.

"You bankrupted me!" she exclaimed, lifting her nose in the air.

"It's not my fault you don't know how to manage your funds," he teased.

"Oh, stop it," she groused, rolling her eyes, her lips curved in a slight, affectionate smile. "I should have taken a leaf from Sabine's book. Do let me know if Adrien ever comes down from the roof."

"You'd be waiting a long time. Sabine hates losing."

They arrived at the doors of the castle. Hermione turned to him, her face almost elfin in the light of the torches, her eyes like dark amber. He knew she was internally debating whether to talk to him about Lucius, but he really didn't want to, not now. He sent a silent plea in her direction, letting his face say what he didn't have the words for, hoping that she understood.

She did. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Good night."

He watched her walk up the steps, but suddenly she froze, snapped her fingers, and turned back to face him. "Oh, what were you going to ask me yesterday?"

Draco could only manage a rueful half-smile, because he knew that the moment had passed. He couldn't ask her to be his girlfriend while he was still reeling from the turmoil of having confronted his father. He wanted it to be special, uncolored by bad memories. If he looked back on this evening now, he would only remember the bitterness in his throat, the hollow feeling at the pit of his stomach. She deserved so much more than only half of him.

"I forgot," he lied. "It was not important, anyway."

She waved good night and disappeared through the doors.

Two years from now, when they were on opposite sides of the war, Draco would regret not taking this chance. But this was the present moment and he was only a child, and he had no way of knowing all the darkness that the future was going to bring.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	18. Mission Impossible

**Notes: **TWO MORE CHAPTERS ALSFKJDSJKL! (I can also promise that they will be much longer than this one.)

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

**Mission Impossible**

* * *

"That horrible woman!" Hermione seethed, glaring down at the latest issue of the _Daily Prophet. _"I ought to-!" The sentence choked off in her throat as she sputtered with helpless rage.

"Throw her in a vat of boiling oil?" suggested Parvati.

"Hex her nose off?" said Lavender.

"Both are good options," Hermione conceded. It wasn't even the fact that Rita Skeeter's newest article had all but accused her of brewing illegal love potions; the woman had once again brought up the subject of Draco's parentage, saying that, in addition to having a taste for famous wizards, Hermione was a gold-digger as well as insensitive to Harry's feelings because she was carrying on with the son of a man once linked to the Dark Lord.

"You know," mused Parvati in a consoling tone, "you've set a record. The Boy Who Lived, a Quidditch superstar, and one absolutely gorgeous French guy- I bet a lot of girls are beside themselves with envy right now."

"I know I am," Lavender piped up. "I can't decide whether I want to murder you or to _be _you, Hermione."

"Oh, stop it," Hermione groused. "I just hope Draco doesn't see this- who am I kidding?" She sighed in defeat. "He will."

Parvati grabbed the newspaper from her. "'This publication can exclusively report that Granger and Malfoy were entwined in a passionate scene in the garden after the Yule Ball-'"

"We were just dancing!" Hermione cried, throwing up her hands in dismay.

"_After _theBall?" Lavender leered at her, wagging her eyebrows suggestively. "What did you use for music?"

"Bit obvious, isn't it, Lav?" said Parvati. "The music of the night, of course."

Hermione scowled at her two roommates as they collapsed into each other's arms, helpless with laughter. "This isn't funny!" she said loudly over the sound of their mirth, but they begged to differ, and so she stalked out of the girls' wing in disgust.

Harry was in the common room. She plopped down beside him on the couch, and he shot her an awkward, rueful grin.

"Don't come any closer, Hermione," he said dryly. "You're broken my heart enough."

She smacked his shoulder. "Quit it before I break something else."

He blinked, possibly because she rarely threatened him or Ron with bodily harm, as a joke or otherwise. "You're really bothered about this?"

"I don't think it's fair that this vile woman keeps using Draco's parentage against him because it's the _only _thing she knows about him!" railed Hermione. "He isn't just a Death Eater's son, you know! He's smart and he can be funny sometimes and he has this habit of frowning when he's trying to think of the right words in English and he's so polite that it's quite painful and he loves his mother and Sabine and he hates British food and _he is an actual person. _He isn't a prop for some hackneyed journalist's petty vendetta-" She broke off, because Harry was now giving her a very strange look.

"What?" she asked defensively.

"I just, er-" He cleared his throat, although it sounded more like a dramatic cough, because Harry Potter could never be suave even at wand-point. "I'm- I'm learning a lot of new things about you this year."

Before she could ask him to explain what he meant, one of Beauxbatons' silvery boreal owls swooped in through the window and deposited a note on Hermione's lap. She opened it, expecting to see Draco's elegant, flowing cursive, but the penmanship was blocky and unfamiliar, although the parchment did contain the uncertain impressions that Draco's written English also sometimes possessed, the tentativeness of someone unused to writing in that language.

_Hi, Hermione!_

_Meet us by the lake if you can! Please reply._

_Cordially,_

_Sabine_

_P.S. If you wish, also bring Harry and your loud red friend._

* * *

"'Red friend'?"Ron grumbled as he, Harry, and Hermione made their way through the grounds. "What does that even _mean?"_

Hermione rolled her eyes. "She probably meant 'redhead,' Ronald. Let it go."

Sabine and Draco were waiting for them by the shore, the former brandishing a copy of the _Daily Prophet _and the latter scowling at the surface of the water that, on this remarkably placid day, was as still as glass.

"We must stop this- this creature!" Sabine declared without preamble once the three Gryffindors were within earshot.

"'Creature'?" Draco repeated, raising one pale brow.

"_Je ne sais pas comment le dire en Anglais," _Sabine muttered.

"Bless you," Ron told her.

She stared at him as the joke missed its mark by about a thousand feet. "I did not sneeze?" she said, confused.

There was a tense silence and a lot of fidgeting and gazes dropping to the ground.

Finally, and mostly out of desperation, Hermione said, "So! How do we stop her, then?"

"Well…" the other girl began slowly, still side-eyeing Ron, "… first we learn how she's getting information. She is banned from the grounds, yes?"

The Hogwarts students nodded.

"She could be using an Invisibility Cloak," suggested Draco.

"Where would she even get one?" Sabine waved a dismissive hand.

"Yeah, those things are impossible to find," Harry said good-naturedly.

"Could she have somewhere put a-" Sabine's brow creased. "Hmm, I don't know the English- a microphone?"

"A bug," said Hermione. "No, that's impossible."

"Electronic devices do not work on the campus," Draco remarked.

Hermione gazed at him warmly. "You finished _Hogwarts: A History_?"

His lips quirked in a half-smile. "A very good book."

Their friends let out a collective groan.

"Why am I not surprised?" Ron asked the air.

"Back on topic," Hermione hastened to say. "She knows practically everything. She has to be sneaking in _somehow."_

"Or she might have someone giving her information," Draco murmured. "It could be anyone."

"Anyone with a grudge," added Hermione.

"Perhaps your caretaker? He seems nasty enough," said Draco.

"Filch? Could be," Hermione mused. "Or it might be a student. Goodness knows quite a lot of people here are bored and immature."

"So we have to snoop." Draco's features came alive with excitement. "Look around for people doing suspicious activities."

"Like writing furtive notes or talking to someone who's not there!" Hermione said.

Draco nodded. "Or disappearing for lengths of time."

"We have to spy!" exclaimed Hermione.

"You should make a list of suspects," said Draco. "And we can split up and… that thing where you follow people."

"_Tail them!" _Hermione crowed with glee.

They were full-on grinning at each other now, while their friends stared at them open-mouthed.

"That was a bit terrifying," Harry admitted at last.

"I'll say," said Ron, shaking his head. "Good thing you two aren't teaming up for world domination."

"You never know," Hermione said, softly and happily, looking into Draco's gray eyes.

* * *

In hindsight, they probably should have practiced sneaking around first.

Argus Filch stopped shuffling down the corridor and turned to Draco and Sabine with a scowl as Mrs. Norris wound around his ankles.

"What're you lot hanging around me for?" the caretaker asked suspiciously.

"Um… an interview!" Sabine improvised, holding up her ever-present camera. "We are from the Beauxbatons newspaper. We will ask a few questions about your work, yes?"

Filch's demeanor altered somewhat. His chest began to puff up with pride. "By all means," he said magnanimously. "What do you want to know?"

Sabine glanced at Draco, and it took him a few seconds to rally. "Mister Filch," he said, "how is your job crucial to the school?"

Filch's bulging gaze snapped to him and widened in recognition. "You look just like-"

"Yes," Draco said shortly. "I know."

The caretaker shook his head slightly. By now it was a familiar gesture, the older people trying to loosen themselves from the chains of sudden memory. Draco had almost gotten used to it.

His and Sabine's reward for their quick thinking was a long-winded rant on the maintenance of the castle and the unruly conduct of the students. Halfway through, Sabine's green eyes began to glaze over, and then Filch launched into a tangent about the good old days when he was allowed to hang students up by their ankles, and she started looking vaguely ill.

"Oh, how they squealed," Filch mused fondly. "Hey, aren't you writing this down?"

Draco tapped the side of his head. "I have it all up here. Thank you for your time." Before Filch could say anything more, the two teenagers hurried away.

"Well, that was adequately horrible," said Sabine.

"Yes, let's not do that again," said Draco.

Their first mission foiled, they decided to inspect the courtyard while Harry, Ron, and Hermione were still in class. On their way out, they ran into Alastor Moody.

"Well," said the professor, speaking to both of them although his magic eyeball fixed itself solely on Draco. "Maxime's little newshounds. Doing all right, I hope?"

"Yes, sir," Draco and Sabine chorused.

"If it isn't Malfoy Junior." The intent stare was unsettling on that scarred old face. "Not as slippery as your sire, after all."

"I am afraid I don't understand," Draco said, trying not to blink.

Moody snorted. "You've got his smarts, I'll give you that."

_No, _Draco thought mutinously, _every good thing I have is from my mother._

Moody suddenly smirked, as if he had read Draco's mind. "Give my regards to Narcissa, boy. Lovely woman. Cold as ice, but lovely as hell." He nodded at them and continued walking.

"That man gives me the creeps," Sabine declared when Moody had gone.

* * *

It was early in the morning and they were trying out the eating-together thing again, only this time Draco had brought Sabine along for backup. The Gryffindors were more restrained, possibly because most of them were still half-asleep, and overall the mood was peaceful.

Until the mail arrived.

"I told you not to annoy Rita Skeeter!" said Ron as Hermione found herself swamped in hate-mail. A lot of it was from Harry's supporters, although there were a few warning her to stay away from the fine old Malfoy family.

Draco sniffed as he looked over one such note with a critical eye. "'Leave our kind alone?'" he read aloud in tones of disdain. "What a wannabe. No pureblood would dare send a letter without sealing it with the family crest."

Ron and Hermione exchanged glances.

"Should I tell him only the old-fashioned sort do that these days?" Ron asked in a low voice.

"He'd just take that as a compliment," Hermione replied with a long-suffering sigh. "He's a very strange boy- ouch!"

Undiluted bubotuber pus was leaking out of a freshly-opened envelope in her hands, the yellowish liquid seeping onto her fingers. Her skin felt like it was burning, and tears welled up in her eyes at the sudden onslaught of pain.

Draco snatched the letter from her and threw it on the floor. Pus smeared on his palms in the process, but he seemed not to notice while he gingerly held Hermione's wrists, avoiding getting more of the substance on them. He examined the boils on her fingers, his mouth tightening.

"How dare they!" he snapped, his eyes glittering dangerously. "Wait until I-"

And then he blinked, as if he'd just registered the sensation of the pus on his own flesh, and then he was cursing in a stream of rapid French, letting go of Hermione and flapping his hands in the air in a futile attempt to cool them.

"Hospital wing, you two," said Harry through a mouthful of toast.

* * *

Hermione was fast finding out that Draco had very low tolerance for pain. In fact, he was actually something of a baby.

"Anyone would think you were dying, from the way you're carrying on," she scoffed as they went to see Madam Pomfrey.

"It hurts," whined Draco. "They can't do this to me!"

"They did it to me, too," she reminded him.

He turned sober. "I'm trying not to think about that," he admitted in a softer voice. "I don't know how to deal with being angry."

Her hands were still hurting too much to touch anything, so she leaned her head on his shoulder as they walked, just for a quick second. It wasn't too difficult because they were almost the same height, but she found herself wondering how tall he would be when he hit his inevitable growth spurt.

_What will you look like in a few years? _she wondered, pulling away so she could glance at him. _What kind of person will you be then?_

It hit her then that she might never get to know. He was leaving next month.

Hermione was suddenly glad for the pain in her hands. It gave her something to concentrate on that wasn't the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	19. I Want You to Stay

**Notes: **I apologize for the delay, but this was a long update and I needed to be careful about how certain things were going to go. This is the second-to-the-last chapter, and I am still very grateful to all of you, but I think I'll save the sappiness for my final author's note :) Now is the time to point out any loopholes in the plot that I may have missed, and of course please don't hesitate to tell me what you think of this story so far. Your feedback will really help me carve out an ending that won't disappoint. I'll see you guys soon...

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen**

**I Want You to Stay**

* * *

It was a calm Saturday morning in Hogwarts. The clouds had rolled away shortly before dawn, allowing the sun to warm the air- or, at least, make it more bearable. It was still no French Riviera, but Draco decided he'd take what he could get.

He leaned against a tree trunk by the shores of the lake, the rough bark digging into his powder-blue robes. The water lay still within its banks, a bright and dazzling reflection of the sky overhead. Draco's eyes fluttered to half-mast, his problems very far away for once. _Yes, _he thought. _This is good. This is peace._

"I just had the most _brilliant _idea!" a loud voice exclaimed in his ear.

Draco was so startled he almost fell over. "Good morning," he said mildly to Hermione as he collected himself.

"_Bonjour," _she replied with a cheerful smile and a wink. She was holding a piece of parchment in her hands, which she now thrust into his face. He registered squiggly lines and moving black dots before she lowered it to her lap.

"What is that?" he asked.

"It's called the Marauders' Map. It shows where everyone is on the grounds at all times. See?" Her fingertip landed on the parchment and his gaze followed. "Harry and Ron are having breakfast in the Great Hall, Lavender and Parvati are sleeping in, Sabine's- oh, dear, she really shouldn't be so close to the Forbidden Forest-"

"She is taking photographs," Draco explained. His mind was racing. "So, if the Skeeter woman is snooping around, this map will-"

"- show where she is!" Hermione finished for him, beaming triumphantly.

He allowed himself a rare half-smile. "Very nice. Where did you get this?"

"It's actually Harry's," said Hermione. She bit her lip, conflicting emotions playing out over her features, and Draco privately thought he would never get tired of this, of watching that amazing face move.

Finally, she nodded to herself, as if coming to a decision. "This map," she told him, her chestnut eyes gentle, "was written by Sirius Black and his friends. James Potter, Remus Lupin, and- and Peter Pettigrew. They called themselves the Marauders, and they were the greatest pranksters Hogwarts has ever known- although, of course, Fred and George seem to be giving them a run for their money."

Draco's heart clenched. Here it was again, another piece of family history that had never been revealed to him before. "You are saying there was a Black who had a sense of humor?" he tried to joke. The words came out stilted in English; they had been funnier in his head.

Hermione grinned, but it was soft, slightly tearful. "Sirius does- did. The best."

"I should have liked to meet him," Draco quietly admitted.

"He'd have taught you a thing or two," Hermione agreed. For some reason, she seemed uncomfortable and tried to cover it up by studying the map again. Her brow creased. "Draco…"

He glanced at where she was pointing, and he drew in a sharp intake of breath. The dot labeled _Sabine Gaillard _was moving into the Forbidden Forest.

* * *

Bastien stumbled out of the carriage, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as the two fourth-year students rushed past him. _"Où allez-vous?" _he called out in a scratchy voice.

Despite Hermione's presence, Draco replied in agitated French, his usual courtesy giving way to panic.

Bastien's eyebrows shot up in surprise. _"Vrai?" _he asked as he hurried after them. _"Pourquoi?"_

"_Qu'est-ce que j'en sais?"_

Despite the gravity of the situation, Hermione found herself thinking that, if Lavender and Parvati were here to listen to this, they would alternate between swooning and bursting into flames.

The three of them froze upon reaching the edge of the woods. Here the trees grew tall and thick and curled into one another, nothing but darkness peering out from the gaps among branches. It was a place that seemed incongruous in the golden radiance of the morning, stretched out like a slumbering, many-tentacled beast under a clear blue sky.

"Maybe we should get your headmistress," Hermione suggested to the boys.

"No," Bastien and Draco chorused.

"She'd expel Sabine without a second thought," said Draco, his gray eyes peering at the treetops.

"If we go in there, _all _of us are going to get expelled," said Hermione, but she was already marching forward, because years of being friends with Harry and Ron had taught her that she would always end up breaking the rules. This was simply just another day in the life of Hermione Granger.

* * *

"This is _not _how I wanted to spend my weekend," grumbled Bastien, swatting away the brambles that grazed his arms and face as they advanced deeper into the Forbidden Forest.

Draco glanced at Hermione, whose brown hair shone in the glow of _Lumos. _To Bastien, he said, "Can you please start talking in English?"

"I apologize, Hermione," came the older boy's thick, accented tones.

"It's quite all right. I can understand a fair bit of French, you know."

Something squelched under Bastien's shoe, and he cursed.

"Okay, I didn't understand _that," _Hermione said wryly, "and I don't think I want to." She squinted at the map. "We're getting closer to Sabine- oh, hang on, I think she's coming to us…"

They stopped walking. Draco was suddenly very conscious of what he could hear. The pattern of his breathing, tangled with Bastien's and Hermione's. The whirr of insect wings, the occasional birdcalls- or, at least, he _hoped, _with every fiber of his being, that they were birds. He didn't like these woods, where branches snapped and things slithered in the darkness.

There was a rush of footsteps and crackling twigs, and then a blur of blue robes and auburn hair as Sabine barreled out of the shadows.

"Run!" she screamed at them in French. "Seriously, _run!"_

Before Draco could ask her what the hell was going on, the wall of trees in front of him suddenly parted, like ocean waves being sliced in half by a ship's prow. And then a couple of forest trolls came trampling through the undergrowth, their skins pale green in the light emerging from the students' wands, their low roars filling the world.

Some distant part of Draco was dimly aware that he had to move, and he had to move _now, _but his feet were rooted to the ground in terror. He could only stare up at the monsters as they loomed in the darkness, baring their teeth and raising their clubs in a menacing fashion.

Small hands tugged at his robes. "Draco!" Hermione was pulling him back, their feet skidding over pebbles and rotting leaves. "Do _not_ make me carry you out of here!"

One troll slammed its club down on the ground, and the entire forest seemed to shake. The vibrations knocked Draco and Hermione off-balance and they toppled into each other, falling over in an ungraceful heap of arms and legs.

From several paces away, Bastien and Sabine were shouting at the pair to get a move on, before it was too late. As Hermione hastily clambered off him, Draco readied his wand, but he realized he had no idea what spell to use. He didn't think a lone _Stupefy _or the Full Body-Bind could work on something as large as a troll. This situation was not fourth-year-level, at all.

A beam of red light shot out and hit the nearer troll square in the eye. It took Draco a second to register that the spell had come from Hermione. As the afflicted troll dropped its club and staggered around, grunting in pain, Bastien grabbed the backs of Draco's and Hermione's collars and towed them to safety, with Sabine pulling on his arm as she took the lead. Moss and loose soil went flying by, the dim outline of the forest cover blurring, until finally there was sunlight and blue sky and fresh, open air. All four students collapsed at the edge of the woods. The trees rustled and the trolls howled, but they did not emerge to give chase.

"Was that the spell Krum used on the dragon?" Bastien asked Hermione as he lay flat on his back.

"The Conjunctivitis Curse," said Hermione as she hauled herself into a sitting position. "Yes."

Bastien grinned, sweating and out of breath. "Good one. I wonder what else you have learned from him."

Draco was surprised by the jealousy that suddenly flared inside him. He was surprised that he could still feel such a petty emotion even after what had just transpired. _I am a bad person, _he thought, and to distract himself, he looked over at Sabine and snapped, "You idiot! What were you hoping to accomplish, going in there?"

Sabine's cheeks burned with shame. "I was curious," she muttered. "And… and maybe I saw unicorns and I wanted to take pictures of them in their natural habitat."

Draco stared at her in disbelief, but Bastien chortled and reached out a lazy hand to ruffle her curly hair. "Only you, Gaillard," the older boy wheezed. "Only you."

Hermione turned to Draco. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," he replied. "You?"

"Fine. This was nothing. When I was in my first year, a troll got into the _dungeons."_

He was still sprawled on the ground while she bent over him, smelling like earth and grass. The light of the sun softened her edges, rendered her translucent. It was almost summer, and the freckles splashed on the bridge of her nose were more pronounced.

"This is a really terrible school," Draco said, wondering how he could feel so homesick and so at home all at the same time.

* * *

Later that night, his mother's head appeared in the flames, surprising Fleur who had been warming her hands by the fireplace.

The girl took a step back. "Madame Malfoy," she acknowledged with a polite nod.

"Mademoiselle Delacour." Narcissa's courteousness was tinged with a hint of ice. Draco knew what she was thinking: _bird girl, Veela, not human. _He hurried over to the hearth as Fleur and the other students retreated to their rooms.

"Did you see them?" Narcissa asked her son. "My memories?"

"Yes," said Draco. _I saw what you did. I saw the place that you tried to make for me. I saw that you only wanted to keep me safe. _"Thank you."

Narcissa's wintry eyes thawed slightly. "I miss you very much, _mon trésor. _I can't wait for you to come home."

He wondered if he should tell her that Lucius had come to the castle, but quickly decided against it. It would serve no purpose other than to make her worry. However, there was something else nagging at the back of his mind, and it now spilled forth on his tongue. "Why do you never talk about Hogwarts? Not even the war- just your days here."

"That was before the war, and that is why I don't talk about it." Narcissa's face was a porcelain mask, as always, and only those who knew her well could have caught the tremor in her lashes. "You are very young, Draco. Someday you will understand, although if it were up to me, you would never have to."

The Marauders' Map was burning a hole in his pocket. They had all agreed to take turns perusing it for traces of Rita Skeeter. "Did you love Sirius Black? I mean… did you even care for him at all?"

It was an inappropriate question, and the way she looked down her nose at him made that exceedingly obvious. But perhaps she was still feeling guilty about the years of silence, so she said, in measured tones, "In the House of Black, we are taught to honor our family. He was my cousin." Her lip curled. "It doesn't matter anymore. He is dead now."

"Herm- _they _tell me that he was very funny."

"He was a prankster." Narcissa was looking at him, but her gaze was distant, as if she wasn't seeing Draco or the carriage, but, rather, something more far-off. "Right until the very end, I suppose."

* * *

They had been studying the Marauders' Map for days, but they had so far been unable to track Rita Skeeter down. Harry and Ron were starting to complain that the moving black dots were all they could see whenever they closed their eyes.

Hermione concurred, but she still hadn't given up. In the peace and quiet of the library, she huddled down until the tip of her nose was almost touching the parchment, an intent frown marring her features. Why did there have to be so many people in Hogwarts? _Honestly._

"Good afternoon, Herm-own-ninny."

Hermione looked up, pleasantly surprised. "Viktor! How are you?"

"Good, thank you," he said as he slid into the chair across hers.

"You've been avoiding me," she joked. He'd rarely spoken to her after the Second Task.

"What? No… I…" He ducked his head. "Well, maybe a little."

_This is why you're not allowed to try to be funny, Hermione Granger, _she chided herself. _It always ends in tears. _"Whatever for? It's not that _Daily Prophet _article, is it?" She would actually be pretty disappointed if it was; he seemed too level-headed to let things like that affect him.

"No, of course not." He stared moodily at the table. "I was- embarrassed. I thought, perhaps, you may have been inconvenienced by the Second Task?"

_Well, it _was _pretty inconvenient, _said a snide voice in her head that she suspected was Parvati's influence more than anything. But, out loud, she told him, "Oh, don't worry about that. It was very exciting. At least now I have a story to tell my grandchildren."

He shifted in his seat, still seeming uneasy. "And also, you are with the French boy. I do not wish to intrude…"

"With?" Her voice came out more high-pitched than usual. "No, we're not- it's not- we aren't- not _yet- _I mean-" She broke off, her mind a confused jumble. "I don't know what I mean," she finally admitted.

Viktor laughed. Although the sound had a rusty quality to it, it was genuine. "You are a very strange girl."

Hermione smiled. "So they tell me."

He smiled back. The look in his eyes was slightly rueful, the look of missed chances, but this was the comfortable beginning of a friendship, and it couldn't get any better than that.

* * *

"Lavender," Hermione said as she watched the girl painting Parvati's toenails.

"Hmm?"

"Don't you think you're too young to have a boyfriend?"

Lavender and Parvati glanced at each other. There was a quick unspoken conversation going on in that exchange. Finally, they turned to Hermione as one.

"I'm fifteen, same as you," said Lavender. "Question is, do you _feel _fifteen?"

"Not always," said Hermione. "Sometimes I feel younger. But, most of the time, I feel older."

"That's because you're really smart," said Lavender. "And I mean that, Hermione. You're terrifyingly smart. I think you're smart enough to know if you're ready for a boyfriend or not." She went back to applying a second coat of bright orange polish on Parvati's big toe. "Me, though, I'm a bit dumb, yeah? So maybe I sometimes do things that aren't good for me. And maybe I _am _too young to be with Adam. But you really can't help things like that. The first time I saw him, I just knew. And that's not smart, but it's mine."

Hermione bit her lip, thinking about her conversation with Viktor in the library. Back then, she'd struggled to classify Draco, because they were definitely more than just friends, but, at the same time, she had no idea what they actually _were. _He hadn't asked her if she wanted to make it official. And if he did ask, she wasn't sure what kind of reply she would give.

"How old is Draco?" Parvati inquired.

"He's turning fifteen next week." _Oh, bollocks, I still don't have a gift for him._

"Boys are emotionally three years younger than their actual age," Parvati declared in a lofty tone.

"Draco's very mature, though," said Hermione. "Well- most of the time."

Lavender suddenly squealed. "Ooh, what are you getting him for his birthday?"

"I don't know," Hermione admitted with a shrug.

Lavender and Parvati exchanged conspiratorial grins.

"You should kiss him," Parvati suggested.

Hermione's cheeks turned pink. _"I beg your pardon?"_

"You want to find out if you're ready to be in a relationship, you kiss him. And in the process you give him the best birthday present a bloke can ever hope for," said Parvati, a wicked gleam in her dark eyes. "Kiss him, and you'll know."

* * *

Draco rarely slept in, but he'd stayed up past midnight juggling schoolwork and his _La Plume _article, so he wasn't that surprised when he opened his eyes and the wall clock told him it was almost lunchtime.

What _did _surprise him, though, was the fact that Hermione was the one shaking him awake.

He recoiled into the wall. "What are you doing in my room?" His voice emerged as a squeak because he was horribly conscious of his unruly hair and his morning breath.

She waved the Marauders' Map in his face. "Rita Skeeter's here! On the grounds! Hurry!"

"Um…" He blinked at her. "Let me change, first?"

"Oh." She blushed. "Right. Sorry." And then she practically flew out of the chamber, the door slamming shut behind her.

_What a noisy person, _Draco mused to himself as he got out of bed and freshened up. He'd never really thought about it before, but Hermione was _loud, _always vibrating with restless energy even when she was just sitting still. It was a change from the pure-blooded girls he knew back home, girls with quiet demeanors who knew when to drop their gazes and how to walk like they were treading on air. It was a change he wouldn't mind getting used to.

_But you won't have the chance to get used to it, will you? _The sour thought intruded into his mind even though he tried to keep it away. _It's almost June._

He was leaving in less than a month.

He'd known it was coming, but he was still amazed by the pain that blossomed in his chest, a bitter and hollow pang. There was no way he could say goodbye to her. There was no way he could let her go, not after he had seen her in all kinds of light, not after he had memorized every quirk, every type of smile.

Draco Malfoy was used to getting what he wanted. So it hit him hard, what he couldn't have.

* * *

The thing was, when he'd gazed at her through half-mast gray eyes still dark with dreams and with parts of his blond hair sticking up while the rest fell across his forehead, when he'd spoken to her in a low, sleep-scratched voice, she had been filled with a strange kind of emotion. She could do this; she could wake him up every morning. This could be possible. He'd blinked drowsily, the sunlight gilding his pale skin, and she had found herself longing for days that hadn't happened yet.

_Oh, come off it, _she scolded herself. _You have far more important things to take care of._

Soon, Draco and Hermione were huddled under the Invisibility Cloak and sneaking into the gardens.

"I don't see her anywhere," he murmured. He had just brushed his teeth, so the peppermint scent of toothpaste fanned over her cheeks.

Hermione peered at the map again and raised an eyebrow. Three dots labeled _Pansy Parkinson, Vincent Crabbe, _and _Gregory Goyle _were clustered around the dot marked _Rita Skeeter. _What was going on? She and Draco turned the corner and saw the Slytherins. The _Daily Prophet _reporter was nowhere to be found, but Pansy was muttering into her cupped hands. The pieces started to click into place. As Draco and Hermione crept nearer, they spied the flutter of jeweled wings cradled in Pansy's fingers.

_That devious bint! _Hermione seethed. Rita Skeeter was an Animagus.

She pulled Draco farther away, out of earshot. "You go over there and distract them. I'll try to catch Skeeter," she whispered.

"Me?" he said indignantly, although in tones just as low. "How shall I do that?"

"I don't know- talk pure-blood to them, or something. Go!" She all but shoved him out of the cloak, and he approached the Slytherins with a long-suffering expression on his face. Hermione sidled closer as well, inching past the bushes.

"Hello," Draco said to their backs. Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle whirled around, the girl letting out a startled cry as she quickly flung something away- but Hermione was waiting for it. A beetle flew right into her open palm.

_Got you, _she thought in satisfaction. The markings around the insect's antennae were exact replicas of Skeeter's glasses.

"Well, well," said Pansy, recovering her composure. "Draco Malfoy."

And then she started jabbering away in French as, behind her, Hermione conjured a small glass jar and dropped the beetle into it and sealed it tight. Draco's replies were clipped and terse, but there was no mistaking the way his shoulders began to relax as his entire body slipped into the comfort of his native tongue. Hermione had only the vaguest idea what they were saying; it seemed like standard small talk. However, she did _not _like the way Pansy was tittering and smoothing down her hair with an overly nonchalant hand.

Hermione stretched an arm out from under the cloak and flashed Draco a thumbs-up sign over the Slytherins' shoulders. His expression didn't falter as he politely made his excuses, and Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle strode off, the girl shooting him one last smirk that made Hermione's blood boil for some reason.

Once they were alone, Hermione pulled off the Invisibility Cloak and held up the jar in triumph. Draco stared at the beetle trapped inside it.

"She is an Animagus," he said at last. "That is clever."

"Not clever enough," Hermione said smugly.

He took a step closer to her and his hands lifted to the jar as well, his fingers curled over hers. She was still of the opinion that sunlight washed him out, but in its glow his eyes were liquid silver and full of dangerous, unspoken things.

"Thank you, really." She sounded a little breathless even to her own ears. "Yours and Sabine's enthusiasm to catch her- it helped very much, it spurred me on…"

"I wanted revenge," he said. "I was angry."

"Yes, she shouldn't have dragged your family history out like that, it was vile-"

"Not just that," he interrupted, and, because he rarely interrupted her, Hermione Granger fell silent, and listened. "She wrote about that night, at the ball." His voice was careful, soft, the French tinge flattened by a solemn gravity. "And that was yours and mine alone. It was ours, and she tried to take that away." He frowned. "I apologize; I am not explaining myself very well."

_I guess I'll have to find another birthday gift, _Hermione thought.

And she surged up and leaned in closer, with all her Gryffindor bravery, with all her trembling heart, the world green and gold in the light of day, and she pressed her lips to his with no idea what she was doing, knowing only that sometimes you had to seize your moments even if you weren't ready, that sometimes you had to go in like you'd been preparing for this all your life.

Draco tensed at first, obviously surprised, but he slowly began to return the kiss, smiling against Hermione's mouth. The jar shook in their hands as Rita Skeeter's wings beat furiously against the curved glass confines, the _Daily Prophet _reporter searching for a Quick-Quotes Quill that wasn't there, howling and wailing at missing out on the scoop of the year.

* * *

**To Be Concluded**


	20. The Dreams People Have

**Notes: **Thank you, thank you, thank you, dear readers. The past few months have been amazing. I will start plotting out the sequel soon, so if you want to remain updated, you can keep me on your alerts or follow me on Tumblr (youarethesentinels). The quote at the end of this chapter is by John Green, and I hope that, like me, you will find it sums up this fic. I loved making this journey with you. I loved reading all your wonderful, helpful comments. I would never have finished this story without your warmth and support. I'll see you guys again soon... :)

* * *

**Chapter Twenty**

**The Dreams People Have**

* * *

It was strange how time could pass, how the years could shift. It was amazing and brilliant and terrifying, how a person could wake up one day and be fifteen.

Of course, it was less amazing and brilliant, and more terrifying, when the person in question stepped into the living room blinking the sleep from his eyes and was promptly bombarded with loud bangs from party crackers and rains of confetti and a rousing chorus of _"Bonne anniversaire!"_

As Draco stood there, white-faced and startled out of his wits, his schoolmates pounced on him, the girls hugging him and the boys clapping him on the back, and more than one person affectionately ruffling his blond hair.

"You're a man now, little fourth year!" said Adrien, grinning broadly. "Welcome to the halfway point of your teenage life!"

Draco murmured his thanks, and, finally, he was approached by Sabine, who had hung back because she was the only one who knew- or bothered to remember- that he was a little wary of physical contact.

"So. Fifteen." Her jade eyes twinkled. "Don't start thinking you're too cool to hang out with me anymore."

Draco smirked. "I'll try to keep that in mind."

Madame Maxime entered, bearing an enormous chocolate cake laden with blazing candles, courtesy of the Hogwarts kitchens. Draco briefly thought about what Hermione would say- probably something along the snide lines of, "Have fun celebrating the day of your birth on the backs of slaves!"- and, for this reason, he found he couldn't enjoy the surprise as much. Her odd ways had apparently ruined him for cake.

But he did like it, though he would never admit it, when they gathered around the table and clapped their hands and sang, candlelight shining on the faces of his headmistress and his schoolmates whom he'd spent one cold, unforgettable year with on these foreign shores. They beamed at him, the older kids, the ones who had taught him so much about life- albeit inadvertently- while Sabine stood at his side as she always had ever since they were eleven. Four years and counting.

Draco closed his eyes and made a wish and blew out the candles.

* * *

Later that day, he met Hermione by the lake and she dropped a neatly-wrapped package into his hands. "Open it," she said in her trademark bossy tones, and he complied.

It was a Muggle book, the cover battered and the pages dog-eared. "_The Once and Future King, _by T.H. White," he read out loud.

"It's the story of Arthur," she told him. "I've had that copy ever since I was a child. It's yours now."

"A British tale to remember a British girl," he mused, and, for once, the words came out right in English.

She smiled. "You _will _remember me, won't you?"

"I would be afraid to forget," he said, and her grin shone brighter until it was all he could see.

_Too much, _he thought, with the vague melancholy that cursed all writers. _Too much for the heart to hold._

He turned away and she followed his gaze. They looked out over the lake, the backs of their hands brushing together. She asked him what his schoolmates did for his birthday, and he told her about the cake, leaving out the part about it being from the Hogwarts kitchens.

"What did you wish for?" she said.

He couldn't stop himself from glancing at her. The wind blew in from the moors, pushed her messy hair into her delicate profile, blurring it against the shimmering shores of the lake. Girl of wind and water, girl of red and gold. "If I tell you," he said, his mouth dry, "it won't come true."

* * *

The end of the tournament loomed in the distance, an enormous monolith that cast its shadow over the days they had left. Gryffindor House tapped into some previously latent sense of consideration, and refrained from teasing Draco whenever he sat at their table or walked Hermione to class. The Muggle-born Beauxbatons students stopped singing "Puppy Love" whenever Hermione dropped by the carriage. It was peaceful, but also a bit irritating, because all she wanted was a semblance of normalcy, and that did _not _include everyone tiptoeing around her like somebody was dying.

"It's okay to be sad," Lavender and Parvati assured her on a semi-regular basis.

_I don't want to be sad, _Hermione thought in a fit of rebellion. _I just want to make the most out of it._

The fact of his eventual departure did strange things to her blood. She was suddenly hungry for their moments, seizing their time together with burning intensity. She threw herself into their quiet conversations, blurting out anything that was on her mind, telling him everything about her life, no holds barred.

_This is me, _said every word that fell from her lips. _This is who I am. This is what I want to become. Please keep this. Please don't forget._

In contrast, Draco clammed up even more than usual. His replies were shorter and more clipped, although the look in his eyes was softer. He seemed content to just let her talk as they did homework, as they relaxed by the shores of the lake. This withdrawal into silence bewildered Hermione, and so, one morning, she sent an owl to Sabine.

The French girl met her in the library, looking as out of place as Hermione's housemates did. They sat down in one of the little alcoves, and Sabine listened intently as Hermione explained the situation. By the time she was done, the Beauxbatons student was wearing an expression of faint amusement.

"I have an idea why he acts this way," said Sabine. Her accent was still thick, but she had become more comfortable with English over the months. "But it is not for me to tell you. That is his, yes?"

"Yes, of course," said Hermione, her shoulders drooping. "I understand."

"But I can help, perhaps. Um, I should tell a story…" Sabine leaned back in her chair. "You know that I am gay?"

Hermione blinked. "Er, n- no. No, I didn't, actually."

"Well, I am." Sabine shot her a wry grin. "You don't know how to react. Neither did Draco, when I told him. We were third-year, and I was so nervous. Because I was his only friend, see, and if he let that affect him, he would have no one. When I told him I liked girls, he looked embarrassed. Then he avoided me for a few days. Finally, I got so angry I hit him and yelled, and that was when he said…" Sabine's green eyes softened. "He said he thought _I _did not want to be friends anymore, because of his bad reaction."

Hermione's brow creased. "Are you saying I need to hit him and yell at him?"

Sabine chuckled. "I am saying that Draco is hard to understand. He keeps his emotions. You will need to surprise him. So," she finished, flourishing a hand in the air like a magician after a successful trick, "do something surprising."

* * *

"Where are we going?" Draco asked Hermione as she dragged him by the hand up several flights of stairs.

"You'll see," came the enigmatic reply.

It turned out to be the Astronomy Tower. She flung open the doors and they walked into a world of spirals and windows and air and globes. He slowly made his way to the balcony, overcome by the majestic view of distant moors and mountains and gold-speckled water. It was sunset, and everything was veiled in a radiant haze of red and amber. The wind blew into his very fingertips, making all his nerve endings buzz and spark.

_This is Scotland, _he thought with awe. _It's not your home, it's harsh and unforgiving, but it's beautiful, in its own way._

Hermione joined him on the balcony. He smelled brown sugar and warm vanilla, and he knew, with startling clarity, that he would never be able to separate these scents from her. The future opened up before him, long years of absence, _who knows when I'll see you again, _and he suddenly wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

"Oh," she breathed, surprised.

"Just… just go with it," he mumbled into her hair, sunset filtering into his lashes, the songs of wild birds in his ears, the late afternoon lonely and lovely all at once.

She returned the hug, her fingers curling at his shoulder-blades. "Why have you been so quiet lately?" she asked.

He found himself groaning as something clicked into place. "You spoke with Sabine."

"I-" She broke off with a laugh and tried again. "I would never!"

"Liar." But his lips were curving dangerously into a smile, because she had cared enough to ask his best friend about him, and so he let it go. "I do not talk because I want to listen to you talk. I want to remember your voice, your hands. Everything." He squeezed her tighter. "Okay?"

She squeezed back. "Okay."

He wondered what the two of them must have looked like, to anyone gazing up at the Astronomy Tower. Just specks at this great height, just silhouettes in a world of green and gold. He never wanted to go back down.

* * *

On June 24, 1995, Harry Potter reappeared in a flash of light from some place of unspeakable horror, pulling Cedric Diggory's lifeless body back onto the grass of the Triwizard Tournament arena. Draco and Hermione leapt to their feet as, all around them, people in the stands cried out and shoved and panicked.

_Diggory's dead. _The word spread like wildfire through the crowd. _Cedric Diggory's dead._

_No, _Draco told himself. He'd seen the boy walk tall and proud into the arena just a while ago. This was a joke, a sick prank…

Ron and Hermione were talking. _Harry… We have to go to Harry… _Draco found himself being pulled along, down the stands, where he was swept up into a group of people he didn't know. Two of them- a plump middle-aged woman and a tall young man- were obviously Weasleys, their red hair blazing in the light of the torches, bright in the dusk.

"Mum," said Ron, and the woman gathered him and Hermione in her arms.

From beyond the curve of Mrs. Weasley's shoulder, Hermione looked at the young man. "Bill, is Cedric really-?"

Bill shook his head. "Not here."

"Malfoy!" someone shouted, and then Draco's schoolmates descended on him. Fleur looked slightly woozy from the effects of the spell that had taken her out of commission during the Third Task, but she was shaking off Cerise's and Lascelles' arms as they tried to support her.

"We have to go back to the carriage," Adrien rattled off in French. "Madame Maxime's orders."

"I have to stay with Hermione," Draco responded in kind. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Mrs. Weasley and Bill were now staring at him. "You go on. I will follow."

"Cedric is _dead!" _Fleur burst out. "We don't know what's going on. We have to stick together."

"Come on, Malfoy," said Bastien, taking his arm.

"No," an oily voice spoke up. Severus Snape had appeared in their midst. "Mister Malfoy needs to stay with us. He needs to see Dumbledore."

Fleur let out a frustrated breath. "Monsieur-"

"We'll take care of him, Miss Delacour," Bill interrupted gently. "Leave him to us."

For a brief moment, Bill and Fleur looked at each other, an undecipherable expression on the French girl's face. Finally, she nodded, and the Beauxbatons students started making their way back to the carriage.

Sabine reached out to squeeze Draco's wrist as she brushed past him. "Keep safe, okay?"

Draco nodded mutely and he watched his schoolmates disappear into the night. _You, too, _he thought. _Keep safe, all of you._

"Draco," whispered Mrs. Weasley, and his gaze snapped to her and she flinched, as if she'd seen a ghost.

_This is what I am to the older people, _he thought. _I will always be a ghost._

Mrs. Weasley shuddered. "He looks just like-"

"Yeah, Mum," said Bill, watching Draco intently. "I know. I see it."

As they made their way back to the castle, Draco noticed Snape idly fiddling with the sleeve of his robes, as if his arm was itchy. Before he could ponder this, though, Hermione's hand slipped into his.

"What do you think happened?" he asked her.

"I don't care." The worry on her face made her look fierce. "I just want to know if Harry's all right."

* * *

Snape left them in the hospital wing, and they waited there, with Draco hanging back as the others gathered around a harassed-looking Madam Pomfrey, demanding to know where Harry was. After what seemed like hours, the door swung open and Dumbledore and Harry stepped inside, followed by a large black dog.

As the headmaster drew Bill and Mrs. Weasley aside and Ron and Hermione ran to hug Harry, the dog stared at Draco, looking somewhat mournful. Draco took a step back, the urgency of the situation not enough to dispel his distaste for animals.

"_Asseids," _he commanded.

Instead of sitting, the obviously ill-trained mutt opened its jaws wide, tongue wagging out and wheezing. Was it… was it _laughing _at him? Draco frowned.

"Draco. Come here, please," said Dumbledore, beckoning him over. He went to the adults, still keeping a wary eye on the beast.

"You must leave for France tonight," Dumbledore told him quietly. "Not Beauxbatons- you must go _home. _Bill will accompany you. I have already spoken with your Minister about providing the necessary protection."

"Protection from _what?" _Draco asked, baffled.

"Listen to me. Lord Voldemort has returned." Dumbledore's tones were grave, his blue eyes robbed of all sparkle. "The Dark Lord holds his grudges. He will not forget that your mother defected. You are no longer safe on British soil."

* * *

On the other side of the room, Harry was valiantly fighting off Madam Pomfrey's ministrations. "Hermione," he whispered, "Voldemort's back, and Moody was Barty Crouch, Jr. He used Polyjuice-"

"_What?" _Hermione gasped in disbelief. "How-?"

"That's not important right now," said Harry. "Listen. Crouch told me there was only one thing he hated more than Death Eaters who walked free, and that was Death Eaters who walked away. He said Narcissa Malfoy would pay the price of betrayal, that Voldemort would take the one thing she held dear-"

Hermione whipped around to stare at Draco, who was deep in conversation with Dumbledore, Bill, and Mrs. Weasley. As if he felt her gaze, he looked up and their eyes met, space and oceans between them.

* * *

"Why does he have to leave?" Hermione angrily demanded as she, Bill, and Draco rushed over the grounds, wands out. "Surely he's safer here in Hogwarts, with Dumbledore and the professors-"

"The Death Eaters know he's here," said Bill. "Thanks to Rita Skeeter's article. They know he goes to Beauxbatons, but what they don't know is where he lives. You-Know-Who's only just returned, they don't have a foothold in France yet- it's the best option. And he has to go back; he has to be with his mum, yeah?"

For a second, Hermione looked like she was about to argue, but then she clamped down on her lip, as if to restrain the words from spilling out as resignation hardened her brown eyes. Draco wanted to comfort her, but his head was spinning so much that he doubted he would be of much help. He wondered where his father was at this very moment. _Lucius will not risk seeking you and your mother out, _Dumbledore had assured him. _He only knows too well what Voldemort is capable of._

_What if he tells the Dark Lord where we are? _Draco had demanded.

The old white-bearded wizard had looked almost pained, before he patted Draco's shoulder gently and said, _You are very young, Draco._

And now this, this frantic rush through the night, moonlit lake water and stardust-tipped grass and shadows leaping out from every corner, the golden lights of Beauxbatons carriage beaming softly in the distance. As they neared the vehicle, Bill reeled off a series of instructions to Draco.

"The threat level will be assessed for a few days. It will be up to your Ministry to decide whether to transfer you to an Unplottable location or just keep tabs. France is good at what it does; that's why you went mostly untouched during the war. Dumbledore has faith in your government. But, in the meantime…" Bill glanced at Hermione apologetically. "No communication with the outside. No Floo, no owls. Nothing that can be traced."

He flung open the door of the carriage and was immediately met by a half-circle of raised wands.

Bill held up his palms. "Calm down, I'm just returning him," he said in passable French, although he did use the wrong verb and it made Fleur wince.

The Beauxbatons students lowered their wands once they caught sight of Draco, and then they flocked around him, pelting him with questions from all sides.

"Are you okay?"

"What happened?"

"Why do you need to see Dumbledore?"

Surprisingly, Hermione took charge. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin as she stared them all down, looking much like she did the day of the snowball fight. "Due to unforeseen circumstances, Draco has to go back to France tonight," she told them bossily, bravely. "The reason will become clear in time, but, for now, he would very much like to say goodbye to all of you."

_I do? _Draco thought, glancing at her in mounting panic. And then he gazed at Sabine and the older kids, who were quiet now and staring at him in bewilderment, and he realized that, yes, he would like to say goodbye to them. He could dwell on the Dark Lord's return and what it meant later. Right now, he only wanted to stay in the present moment.

He slowly went to his room, followed by Hermione and Sabine. The two girls watched silently as he packed his belongings, but he could already tell from the way they were exchanging glances that they would have a lot to talk about later, when he was gone.

The wand felt unreal in his hand as he summoned all his things into his expandable suitcase, but he managed to finish packing in a reasonably composed manner, tucking in the book Hermione had given him with extra care, and by the time they returned to the living room, there was a pack of Floo powder in Bill's grip.

"I assume this fireplace is connected to all the students' homes in case of emergencies, and will be disconnected after the tournament?" Bill asked, and Draco nodded. "All right, then. Anytime you're ready, Draco."

Draco cleared his throat. "Jacqueline, the Triwizard article is on my desk. I haven't done the Third Task yet, but…"

His editor-in-chief waved away his concern. "I'll handle it."

"All right." Draco looked at Bastien and Sabine. "I will try to get in touch as soon as possible."

"You'd better," muttered Bastien.

Sabine looked like she was waging some ferocious inner battle. Finally, she caved and threw her arms around him, before stepping back just as quickly.

"Er…" He cleared his throat once more, looking around at his schoolmates. _"À bientôt." _Not _au revoir. _

_See you soon,_ not _farewell._

"Bye, little fourth year."

"See you, Malfoy."

"Keep your head down, kid."

Last, but definitely not least, _never _the least, Draco turned to Hermione, and her eyes were wet, but she managed a smile for him.

"I thought we would have more time," she confessed. "I would have liked that."

"Same," said Draco, his mouth dry, memorizing every curve of her face, every freckle as it gleamed in the glow of the fire. "But I must ask one more thing."

She quirked an eyebrow. "Which is?"

"Go before I do," he murmured, in a low voice meant for her ears alone. "I can't leave if you're still here."

She looked at him for a long, long while, her eyes dark amber in this light, always searching, always curious, always flickering over him. And then she nodded, because that was what their months together meant.

They hugged for the last time in who knew how long. He breathed in the scent of brown sugar and vanilla as she whispered, "I _will _get in touch. I'll find a way."

And, because there were some things he wanted to keep, he allowed himself to stroke her hair, burying his hand in the thick chestnut waves, looping the strands around his fingers. There were other people in the room, but the world was only the two of them. Safety. Peace.

He slowly untangled himself from her and stepped back. _You asked me what I wished for on my birthday, _he thought, _and I can't tell you that because I want it to come true. It's foolish, but if I have one superstition, let it be this. I wished for grace. I wished for grace to carry me all through my life, to carry me back to you._

After she left, even the fire itself seemed to burn lower in its hearth as he approached it. His mother was waiting beyond the flames. The Loire valley. Home.

Sabine's voice disturbed the silence that had seeped into the room. "Malfoy," she said, "you really are an idiot, aren't you?"

Draco laughed. It had a strangled quality to it, because he was unused to laughter and because humor seemed surreal under these circumstances. "You're right; I am." He looked at Bill. "One moment, please."

And then he barreled out the door, back into the quiet night, where Hermione's lone figure was scurrying over the grass, already halfway back to the castle.

"Hermione!" he called, and she halted in her tracks and turned to him.

And Draco Malfoy had never run after anything in his whole life, but he was running now, kicking up dirt, the breeze whipping at his face, the dark silver world blurring past his eyes. He was panting by the time he reached her, and he took only a moment to collect himself before he leaned forward and caught her lips in a chaste, breathless kiss. She hesitated at first, taken by surprise, but soon she was kissing him back under the light of the moon, in the low rustle blowing in from the moors.

"_Tu me manques," _he mumbled against her lips.

"I'll miss you, too," she replied.

When they came up for air, they were grinning at each other, both of them helpless and hopeless and fifteen years old. They didn't say another word, because the last exchange had been perfect, had been the best possible ending. Instead, she merely reached out a gentle hand and touched his cheek, a simple gesture that managed to promise everything all at once.

_After this is over, I will find you again._

And then she walked away, and he slipped a hand into the pocket of his robes as he watched her disappear. After the main doors of Hogwarts had shut behind her, Draco looked out over the lake, where the water murmured in its banks and the waves lapped at the rocks.

_Britain didn't turn out so bad, after all, _he mused to himself. _Who knew?_

He inhaled deeply, savoring the cold air, and then he started walking back to the carriage. The Northern constellations glowed in the black sky overhead, lighting his way.

* * *

_I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once._

* * *

**The End**


End file.
